Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
But for now, I had to focus on the task at hand, whatever Delphine was planning.
Chapter fourteen
Hell to the No
Emily
Maxwell and I stepped into Delphine’s kitchen, while she busied herself in the back corner.
The heavy scent of spices and herbs filled the air.
Pungent and earthy.
I went over to the worn oak table in the center, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
The wooden chair creaked beneath me.
Maxwell sat next to me.
I took in the space.
The kitchen was more than just a room. It was a realm of its own.
Rows of wooden cabinets stood against the walls, aged and scuffed with markings from years past.
Only God knew what Delphine would have in here.
Glass jars—meticulously arranged in neat rows—lined the expansive wooden shelves that stretched from the floor to the high ceilings.
Each jar was different in size, shape, and the curious contents it held.
Among the countless containers, many held an assortment of herbs—from the common to the obscure. Dried leaves of basil, rosemary, and thyme. Their muted green tones contrasted against the darker hues of jars full of various berries. Some of the herbs looked familiar, reminiscent of ones I had seen in baba’s kitchen.
Beyond the assortment of dried flora, however, were jars that sent a chilly unease down my spine.
Man, I don’t know. . .
Obscure, alien objects floated in clear liquids, their identities obscured by a thick fog of reluctance in my mind.
Is that some sort of. . .animal fetus?
I checked out the other jars.
A few jars had tangled roots of plants that were unrecognizable. Some contained tiny bones which may have come from birds or maybe small animals. There were other containers filled with peculiar stones and crystals.
In the far corner of the shelving unit, a collection of parchment scrolls bound with twine and wax seals leaned against the wooden frame. The scrolls were yellowed with age and frayed edges.
An ancient iron stove dominated one corner of the room. Blackened pans hung overhead.
The low hum of a simmering pot on the stove sounded. Within it, the occasional sizzle and pop of ingredients added an unsettling rhythm. From it wafted a rich, savory smell that mingled with the heavy scent of the room.
My stomach growled.
Oh hell no. Better shut your ass up, stomach. We are not eating anything here.
The taste of fear was heavy on my tongue, a bitter note that stood out starkly against the heady mixture of spices.
Delphine brought me over a glass of shimmering blue liquid. “You need to drink this. Enjoy.”
I gazed at it. “What’s this?”
She gave me a firm look. “New Yorkers don’t have the manners to accept things and say thank you, when they are visitors in someone’s house?”
I sucked my teeth. “Your berries had me about to hook up with my fiancé in the garden.”
“Do you want to heal or not?”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t tell me what’s in there.”
“You wouldn’t know what was in there, if I told you.” She set the glass on the table. “Now don’t make me have to pour it down your throat myself.”
I wish you would try that shit.
Delphine scowled as if she heard me.
I blinked.
Did she hear me?
Buzzing sounded next to me.
I turned to Max as he pulled out his phone, checked the screen, and then pressed the ignore button.
At least this time, I caught the name he had put for the contact.
Interesting.
I raised my eyebrows. “Why did you name the person, Hell to the No?”
Delphine snickered and headed off.
Max put the phone into his pocket and gestured to the glass. “How about you focus on drinking that bullshit in your glass.”
Delphine moved towards the old iron stove. “Drink it, Emily, so we can begin. That takes time to hit your system.”
She picked up a wooden spoon and began stirring the simmering pot.
Suddenly, the room filled with a new wave of tantalizing scents, strong enough to cut through the pungent aroma of herbs.
I sniffed. “What’s that in the pot?”
“Sautéed onions, bell peppers, and celery—the holy trinity of Creole cooking.” She tossed something else into the pot. “Now you’ll catch the scent of garlic.”
A comforting warmth enveloped the kitchen as Delphine added chunks of smoked sausage to the sizzling medley.
My mouth began to water.
Then, she grabbed bowls of tomatoes, shrimp, and crab.
The scent was intoxicating yet exotic.
Maxwell kept his voice low. “Damn. . .that does smell tasty.”
Delphine chuckled. “I’m making this special pot of gumbo for you, grandnephew.”
Max shook his head. “Naw. I’m good.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t eat.”
“I ate a lot on the plane ride.”
“Boy, you are going to try a nice bowl of my gumbo.”
“No, I’m not.”
Delphine glared at him. “Why not?”
Max stirred in his chair. “I’m not hungry.”
Delphine placed her hands on her hips and turned to me. “I bet that Baba Yaga you brought here said something about my gumbo.”
I quirked my brows. “Baba Yaga?”
She pointed to the glass. “Drink or you’ll be here all night. When the Lion returns with that Eye, you will want to be awake.”