Grace had thought the group had argued a lot before, but that was nothing compared to what came next. She was reeling from exhaustion and shock but glued in place, because what those deadly, immortal Power brokers decided mattered a whole hell of a lot to her.
When at last the Demonkind Councillor turned to her and asked for her opinion, she was all too happy to give it. She knew she hadn’t seen everything that had happened, nor had she understood all of the arguing, but she saw one thing clearly enough, and she knew how she felt about that.
The Vampyre woman had drawn a sword on her land. As far as Grace was concerned, whatever Rune had done after that point was only what the woman deserved. Grace would have killed the woman herself if she’d had the opportunity.
Once she had said her piece, the whole thing had been over.
To a young, inexperienced human Oracle, the morning had been extraordinary, dangerous, confusing and terrifying. And she hadn’t had a chance to talk it out with anyone or process what had happened. The events kept swirling in her mind like a funnel cloud.
The fact that Grace hadn’t had to kill the woman in self-defense was beside the point. The early morning’s violence hadn’t even been directed at her, but witnessing it had changed everything. Grace’s quiet home and her small life had been indelibly marked.
Her world had already been shaken to its foundations these last four months. Now she felt like she and the children lived in an unimaginably fragile house of glass, and she did not know how she could stand for them to stay there.
At least all the covens in the witches’ demesne recognized what an unmanageable position Grace had been in ever since the accident. It was impossible to meet the obligations and uphold the traditions of the Oracle’s position while also acting as a single parent.
At the instigation of Isalynn LeFevre, the Head of the witches’ demesne, a roster had been developed of witches who were on call to babysit whenever Grace was petitioned to act in her new role as the Oracle. The witches donated their time as part of their tithe of community service. The tithe was required of all actively practicing witches in the demesne, but sometimes the help they gave Grace was grudging. In any case, the babysitting roster was only a stopgap solution. It didn’t solve any of her larger problems.
Or alter the fact that something, somehow, had to change.
It had to, because continuing like this was inconceivable.
The oven timer dinged. The pasta was done.
Grace stood and fed the children supper.
Khalil reformed on the roof of the house, not necessarily because he felt any particular desire to take physical form again but more to give his roiling energy a focal point. He crossed his arms and leaned back against a dormer. The roof was shabby and missing a few tiles, he noted with disapproval. The land was as unkempt as the house, with grass that was too long and weeds that sprouted around fence posts. They were overtaking once well-tended flower beds. Everywhere he looked there was evidence of neglect, while the lazy, contentious human napped. He did not approve of how the property was maintained or how she cared for the children. He tapped his fingers on his biceps and thought.
The Djinn were among some of the first creatures that came into being at the Earth’s formation. Born of magic and fire, they were beings of pure spirit. They gained nourishment from the energy of the sun, from the living things of the Earth and from sources of Power. Any form Khalil chose to take was like donning a suit of clothes. He did not need to eat food or drink liquids. This body would not grow hungry, or grow old and die. Easily assumed and easily discarded, it would fade into nothing as soon as he let go of it.
He was not the oldest of his kind, the first generation of Djinn born at the keen, bright morning of the world, but he was of the second generation and, therefore, considered old among his people. He was an authority in his House and a voice to be reckoned with among the five Houses of Djinn. This young human creature was nothing more than a single breath of time in his ageless existence, and the fact that she called him ignorant was insupportable.
While he certainly knew why she irritated him, he did not know why she interested him. Her facial features and physical form were pleasant enough, at least as far as humans reckoned such things. She was pale and wore shadows on her face like the haunts of memory. Those shadows were intriguing. They told a tale but in a language he couldn’t read. He wondered what they said.