I Was Waiting for You

It feels like hours have passed since Lorcan allowed me to keep my memories.
For now.

Ever since I watched him walk out that door, I’ve tried to fall asleep. But now that the initial shock has faded and my body has started complaining in other ways, everything in the room feels distracting. Everything feels foreign. And, against all expectations, stimulating.

The room is enormous—almost the size of my entire apartment. Cold stone walls, an absurdly high ceiling, and heavy curtains make it feel like something out of a medieval castle.

The flat-screen TV mounted on the wall and the minibar tucked into the corner next to the bathroom ruin the fantasy without asking permission.

Am I in a castle or a themed motel? I wonder.

My stomach answers with a loud growl that echoes in the sepulchral silence of the room. I haven’t eaten anything since lunch with Carmen earlier that afternoon. The half-finished ice cream with Lorcan—before everything went terribly wrong—doesn’t count as nutrition.

Also, surviving an exorcism probably burns calories.

I get up, my body still sore, and limp slightly toward the minibar. Maybe, in the time I was out, Lorcan left something decent inside. Chocolate. A sandwich. Olives. Anything.

I open the small door. The light illuminates my disappointment.

Three unopened bottles of mineral water. Lorcan’s half-finished bottle of whiskey. And a neat row of glass vials filled with a glowing, neon-blue liquid.

Curiosity wins. I pick one up and carefully uncap it. The smell hits instantly. I wrinkle my nose. Berries mixed with fuel.

I recap the vial immediately and close the minibar before I catch something magical.

The hunger doesn’t go away. If anything, it gets worse.

If this is a house, there must be a kitchen, I think. And if there’s a kitchen, there has to be food that doesn’t glow in the dark or smell like a mechanic’s shop.

Clearly motivated by my stomach, I put my sneakers back on and step cautiously out of the room.

The hallway is dim, lit only by moonlight spilling through tall windows at the far end. It’s cold. The kind of cold that seeps from ancient stone straight into your bones. Each step echoes against the walls, too loud, like boots on wood. It shouldn’t be that noisy.

For a moment, I get the unsettling feeling that the echo doesn’t come back quite right. As if the sound lingers a second too long before fading.

I stop. The hallway is empty, but the sensation remains. I’m not walking alone. The house feels like it’s listening.

I try not to think about it.

“It’s fine, Elena,” I mutter to myself. “You’re just raiding a mage’s kitchen. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I follow my instincts until I reach a wide staircase leading down. Then something changes in the air. A smell. I stop and take a deep breath.

Butter?
Roasted tomatoes?
Fresh bread?

My mouth waters instantly. Those warm, domestic smells clash violently with the cold, ominous atmosphere around me.

Like a bloodhound, I follow the trail. Down the stairs, through a hall that feels like part museum, part library, until I see warm light spilling from a half-open door at the end of the corridor.

I hesitate for a moment.

Hunger and curiosity win.

***

I stir the tomato soup with slow, almost ritualistic movements. The cast-iron pot—an inheritance from my aunt, used equally for stews and potions—bubbles softly over low heat. The scent of roasted tomatoes, basil, and garlic fills the kitchen, pushing back the eternal cold of these stone walls.

I pull the bread from the oven at exactly the right moment. Crisp on the outside, still warm inside. I add the cheese without rushing. Let it melt properly.

A part of me wonders what the hell I’m doing, cooking soup and grilled cheese sandwiches in the middle of the night.

The answer comes easily. I can already hear her approaching.

My son—“the most powerful weapon of his generation,” according to half the Council—locked a hungry, traumatized girl in one of the guest rooms.

Now she’s my problem.

I pour myself a glass of wine while checking the soup. I trust my cooking, and first impressions matter. I prepare two more sandwiches—one extra for Elena, and one for myself while we talk.

I can hear her getting closer. Either she has remarkable determination or she’s very hungry. Possibly both. Not everyone would wander through a strange house after everything she’s been through.

I smile to myself. I already like her.

I wipe my hands on my apron, tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and turn toward the doorway just as a small figure appears in the threshold—disheveled, blouse wrinkled, with the expression of someone who has seen far too many strange things in a single day.

I look at her calmly, without surprise. Her wide eyes scan the kitchen—the pot, the steaming plates—before finally settling on me. With a flick of my wrist, I extinguish the flame beneath the pot. The residual air cools the room abruptly, like someone opening a window in the dead of winter.

I’m certain she notices.

“I was waiting for you, Elena,” I say, my voice soft but firm.
“Come have dinner with me.”