calling all writers

I think I may have finally burned myself out on the fan fiction. I suppose I’m a snob. I’ve been spoiled by my peers. I know so many fabulous writers that when I stumble on something so wretchedly written, I seem to find it that much worse than I may have otherwise.

So, calling all writers…get an editor!

Ok, so maybe I needed one too, and that’s ok. Any writer worth his or her salt needs an editor. But people please…some need one more than others.

I spent several painful hours this evening skimming through the needless fluff of a story I was reading just so I could find out how it ended. I don’t even know what possessed me to keep going when page after page of narration washed over me like the overflow of a septic tank (gross but true.)

I wanted to love it. And I really did love it right up to the point where the story took a nasty turn into info-dumpville. Do I really need to know every single steps the characters took as they baked a cake? Really? We needed ten pages of measuring the flour…the shortening…greasing the pan? I wasn’t reading Betty Crocker for crap sake. I was reading what was supposed to be romantic comedy. Unless I actually get a piece of the damn cake at the end, I don’t need to know step by step directions. I also didn’t need to have the same exact scene written out from each character’s point of view (POV for future reference) I mean…come on…it was the exact same dialogue from three different POVs. I didn’t need to read it over and over again. I actually paid attention the first time, and I was really annoyed as I skimmed through twice after that to see if I really needed the other POV to make sense of what was going on (I didn’t, by the way.)

And while I’m ranting…please keep your facts straight!

I actually read a flashback scene in the later part of the story that had been completely modified from the first time I’d read about that scene from the beginning. And I don’t mean POV…I mean actual continuity. That’s a major no-no. Take the time to keep your stuff straight!

Or lose readers.

Other than the crazy readers with OCD who can’t abandon the story until they find out what the hell happens. Yeah, we’ll still be here…skimming our way to the end, cursing you the entire time…poking imaginary needles into your imaginary voodoo doll. And you really don’t want that, do you?

Right…so just take my advice. Get an editor before you put your stuff out there for the world to see. I might forgive you for using rode when you meant road. I might even look the other way when you use the wrong there, their or they’re. But I’m not going to look the other way when your character suddenly has blue eyes in chapter ten when you so brilliantly described them as brown in chapter one.

Ok. I’m done now. I’m just glad I surround myself with brilliant writers who would never ever make those sorts of mistakes…right?

Until the next time…I’ll be sending a few pages over to MY editor for a quick peek!

I always knew that omelet pan would come in handy

We have eggs!

The Henriettas have officially started laying eggs. Two eggs in the span of two days. Ok, so that means only one of them is laying so far, but that’s better than none, and it means soon, we’ll have more eggs than we can eat. I’m already planning the menus.

Egg Salad

Omelets (with my lovely, sort of expensive omelet pan)

Desserts

More Omelets

Deviled Eggs

More Desserts

I’m sure I have no idea all the things you can make with eggs, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough. But hey, it’s Saturday night, I’m really tired (again) and in the spirit off all things egg, I’m going to replay one of my very first blogs (and one of my favorites).

The Infamous Omelet Pan

I woke up ridiculously early this morning—my one Saturday off this month—after staying up past midnight finishing my last post. I never should have had that last diet coke, or the two before that, because my bladder was screaming at me to get up, and finally I had no choice but to listen. I tried really hard not to wake up fully. I didn’t even open my eyes all the way; instead I barely squinted against the faint light as I tripped my way toward the bathroom. Why is it that the catastrophes do not take the same days off as I do? Perhaps catastrophe is too extreme. I do tend to exaggerate, but there is only one thing worse than stepping in a puddle of dog pee in the wee hours of the morning and that is stepping in a puddle of cold dog pee (reason number 22 why my husband is counting down the days until the gates of doggy heaven open up over my house.) My geriatric Labrador had apparently decided that this would be the perfect morning to wet the bed. Hers not mine. At least if it had been warm it would have felt nice on my frozen toes. But no…it was cold. Ice cold. So much for not waking up. I was wide awake now. And hungry again, despite the ordeal surrounding meal time the night before. But I knew we were at least prepared today. After dinner last night, Mike and I made a grocery run—weaning ourselves off the restaurant habit—so the cupboards were fully stocked! It took about thirty minutes of staring at my sleeping husband, whispering, “Are you awake?” before his eyes finally popped opened to look at me suspiciously.

See, this is why I love my husband—well one reason anyway—if I nag him long enough he will usually cook breakfast for me, or dinner, or whatever meal is up next, as long as it means I eat at home and not at a restaurant. It bothers him greatly that I have a fixation with eating out. I don’t really have a fixation, mind you. I just like keeping my culinary options open right up until that last moment. My options this morning were eggs or eggs, as it was impossible to eat cereal with chopsticks as I had previously predicted, and I wasn’t all that interested in pulling out the ingredients for pancakes or waffles. Omelets on the other hand are perfectly suited for chopsticks, and my husband makes a wonderful omelet. I wasn’t paying much attention to him clanking around in the kitchen, until he addressed me directly. “I can’t use this omelet pan anymore. The nonstick coating is completely worn off and it’s coming off in the food. We need a new omelet pan!”

“Absolutely!” I agreed. “We should go get one right now!” It was the perfect reason to shop, and I will grab on with both hands to any opportunity to drag my husband out to shop. His love of cooking and quality cookware was playing right into my hands. “We may as well get breakfast while we’re out!” I threw in as I jumped up to get my coat. I wasn’t going to give him time to think or object. An opportunity for me to eat breakfast in a restaurant will always trump eating at home! One day he will discover my evil plot and contrive a better plan to get me to embrace the home cooked meal, but for now…victory was mine!

Why is it that victory is always sweeter in theory? In practice going out to eat is far less exciting. We didn’t have to spend a lot of time finding a place to eat, but I would have gladly spent a little more if it meant I would have actually gotten to eat something. I ordered eggs. Ironic, I know…I could have had eggs at home, and they probably would have been edible. I managed to get in a few bites of toast and a several strips of bacon, but the eggs were so unappealing that I lost my appetite completely. For the record they took the whole thing off my bill, and I didn’t even have to argue about it. Not that I have ever been afraid of a good confrontation when the need arises. Luckily none was needed. Toast and bacon would have to hold me over until lunch (which was definitely going to be cooked at home as the desire for home cooking had been renewed!)

We had a full morning of shopping. The art of diversion is one I am very familiar with, so I made sure we took the long way through the aisles to the cookware section of the store. We found the omelet pan. And another large skillet that matched our existing cookware (a piece we didn’t already have) but not before we had collected a giant willow laundry basket for the master bathroom, and 2 large Sunbrella outdoor cushions that will make excellent doggy beds! They are water repellent and can even be hosed off to be cleaned! I thought it was a genius, and relatively inexpensive, solution to the peeing situation. The omelet pan on the other hand, was a little expensive. More on that later. First…lunch time. And as it turned out we were too far from home and very hungry, so we grabbed a little something while we were out. We were absolutely going to eat dinner at home, and were actively planning what we would make.  Unfortunately, somewhere between shopping and lunch I discovered that my Blackberry was missing. This was a tragedy of epic proportions! I was unable to concentrate on anything until the phone was found. I actually have a GPS locator for my phone and those of both of my teenage girls, but as it turns out, you need to use the mobile app on your phone to do a location search and my husband’s Blackberry did not have this app! I spent the entire ride back to the house trying to find the app so I could locate my phone from his. When I finally located the phone it was still plugged into the charger at home. Woops…I never brought it with me.

So about that omelet pan…

I was the proud owner of an $80 omelet pan for all of three hours. Roll your tongue back up! I took it back. And not because I caught all kinds of shit from family members for spending that much on one 8 inch skillet (love ya Vik!) I was already planning on returning it…buyer’s remorse…but make no mistake, it was one damn nice pan! The All Clad professional chef omelet pan with multiple layers of stainless steel and a copper core bottom for optimum heat transference! $80 was the sale price! Everyone knows how hard it is to resist a good sale! But clearer heads prevailed after the Blackberry incident and we decided to return the expensive pan for something a little more realistic. By that time, all the running around had completely wiped me out and it was time for dinner. We were in the vicinity of the sushi bar I had lunch in the other day and I couldn’t resist taking my husband in…just to show him the menu, of course.  But do you know hard it is to resist sushi once you’re in there? It is the best sushi bar in all of Kennesaw! Mike had the sashimi salad and I had the spicy tuna roll, and I figured what the hell…so I went ahead and shared a Japanese beaver roll with my husband. You know, just to say I did.

God, I miss sushi. I don’t think you can make sushi with eggs. I wonder if they have a good sushi bar up here in the mountains? I’ll have to make a point of finding out.

Until the next time…I’ll be eating eggs!

cabin goddess with a side of moose

Welcome to the Weekly Guest Spotlight

Kriss MortonTonight’s guest is writer and Cabin Goddess, Kriss Morton. For more about Kriss, please click here for her website.

I have been reading the antics of what I have crowned the Amityville Farm here on Erica’s site with a whole lot of amusement. I have had chickens and goats here at the cabin since moving in so I know part of what she is going and will be going through. I also have pigs that we keep and raise for slaughter but not here at the cabin. For the last few years I haven’t had anything because of the demands of school. The one thing I have had since moving here, is my container garden.

How can you live in Alaska without growing something, even if it is a basic pot full of basil! Each year my wine barrels and various containers yield a bounty of  things like lettuce, tomatoes, sweet peas, various peppers, potatoes, zucchini, tons of edible flowers and a lot of fresh herbs, all but the basil. Basil is a great plant, it is not a hardy plant, you need to grow the seedlings in the pot and baby that plant if you want them to grow into maturity. Once you have a plant to a certain point it grows and grows and as long as you pick the basil you will have enough to keep you smiling and your pad thai singing all summer long. My porch was the perfect place for basil. Not to hot, not to shady just the right amount of shade when needed.

I did not choose to live in a cabin without running water It just happened back in 2005. We have cabin clusters in Fairbanks for many reasons, the main one is it is so expensive to live here and the cost of fuel is astronomical for heating it makes economic sense to not pay 1200 a month for a tiny one bedroom in crack alley. In fact, with the huge population of college students, just I was when my fiance Geoff and I rented the cabin, it was a logical step. In fact there is a badge of honor to say you were a cabin dweller. Most people would have moved by now, but not us we are just to cheap and lazy. Plus we like our cabin it is beautiful despite the fact there is no bathtub or water or indoor plumbing.

I may have to use an outhouse when it is -50 and shower at the laundromat, gym or the student union, but I could have fresh veggies without it costing us an arm and a leg. I had been growing small crops for years and doing container gardening so I was pretty up to speed and here in Alaska I knew I could really have a great thing going and help lower our food bill. The only thing I needed to remember is in Alaska one must always be wary of  placement of crops to minimize the wildlife eating them, mainly moose. Though I still go squee every time I see them I had already experienced them eating all my veggies but the tomatoes and herbs. So I made sure this time I placed the other stuff on the porch.

I was not worried about the herbs but with them being smaller plants and needing more light I had my herb garden anchored to the railing of my small porch. I had all the normal herbs transplanted from seedlings thriving in rectangle flower boxes, except for my lavender and my basil. They were in their own large pots in order to grow huge plus basil is a picky herb to grow. I was not worried about them being moose-safe because how was a moose suppose to get on the porch, right? Five open steep steps up and six down on the other side? Naaaa no worries at all.

Apparently a determined moose won’t let a bunch of steps and dexterity challenges deter him. In fact, if you have big antlers (the moose equivalent of having big cahoonas) you go anywhere you like! You survived the winter without the jackass up the road totaling his car and making you late to hang with the sexy cows and the herd why not treat yourself to some of the fresh food being grown on that unsuspecting hippie princesses front porch! Heck, she even had a HUGE pot of great looking basil, your favorite. The ladies would not be able to resist you! Wow look at those greens… oh and look zucchini, and sweet peas, and pansies, and … nom nom nom insert loud munching sound here and you have what I awoke too one afternoon while napping.

There was this rumbling, the cabin shook and it was getting dark. Oh god was it an earthquake? No wait that sounds like someone eating a salad with their mouth open, What the hell? I slowly got up and went to the window, it was bright and sunny on the side of the cabin. No one was running down the street being chased by a zombie horde. There was no fire off in the distance because the big one hit. The shadow and the noise seemed to be coming from the front porch. Damn it  a dog was out there and into my plants! Stomping over to the door ready to shoo it away with harsh language and possibly a stare down if it was one of those 200 lb tank dogs from up the road, I threw open the door and almost ran into a wall. This was no dog unless someone has been experimenting on campus with animal genetics. It was a wall of brown, a very tall wall covered in brown fur. It was a taller than my door wall of brown, with antlers which from the sound of things apparently to be partaking of a little salad for lunch via my garden. I had a moose and not just any moose but a bull who was over 9 feet tall with the antlers. GREAT there goes my garden, I guess I was wrong about those steps.

I quietly shut the door and swore. Sure the noise had woken me but the half-gallon of ice tea and my bladder were also to blame. I swore and  I paced talking to myself telling myself to be patient I could hold it and the moose would only get one crop it was summer I could grow more. I paced some more called Geoff to tell him and bitch because he would not believe it otherwise. I paced some more, called my mom to tell her the moose was eating my herb garden and chat about the drama at the golf club for an hour. I paced some more squeezing my legs together for another hour.. and moaned and groaned.

Pretty soon the noise stopped but shadow cast through my front door windows showed he was still out there. What was he doing, napping? Didn’t he know I needed to pee? I started yelling at him calling him all sorts of hurtful things. I cast curses in his direction, banging on the door only to have him make this deep chesty huff and shift his weight against the door making it groan. By then I was so desperate I was getting delusional and thought if the moose managed to get on my porch he could breech the door so I stopped. Plus I really needed to pee. You do NOT startle something that can take out an SUV and walk away unscathed. These guys, especially the bull moose, are not very approachable or friendly and even though he would not be able to charge me on the porch, I don’t think I could nudge him to get him off without him taking out the porch or me in the process, so I waited.

Remember how I said I do not have running water? Well we have a sink and under the sink is a bucket for the gray water (the water we do dishes with, wash up with, drain our pasta into and dump by the outhouse in a gray water pit.) When I became more lucid I realized I was going to pee my pants very soon, I have had five kids, the fortitude and staying power on my bladder was not going last much longer. I was giving a whole new meaning to the jazz hand combo pee-pee dance, in fact I am pretty sure I created a bunch of new steps and gestures and a few new swear words too. It was a work of art, but I did not care by three hours into the Great Moose Stand-off of 2005. I grabbed the bucket from under the seat, dumped some laundry soap in (no clue why but it sounded good at the time) using our toilet seat we keep in the house I put it over the bucket and I peed. I peed like a diabetic cat, I peed like a beer guzzling frat boy, oh god I peed and it was great. I was ready for the next three hours of the stand off.

Adjusting my tie dye, wiping the sweat off my brow and with an air of determination I stood up, moved the bucket back under the sink to be dumped when I was finally free to leave my abode and thats when I realized it. The roaring in my head while peeing was not in my head after all it was the noise of the @)$$)@)E moose walking off my porch backwards and moving to the next victims cabin. I grabbed the bucket and stomped out yelling at him expecting to see all my plants decimated to stubs, it had after all been over three hours of never ending munching and napping. But wait, my sweet peas were still climbing their trellis, my peppers still ripening on the vine…. my basil.. WAIT my BASIL the HUGE beautiful babied and nurtured basil was gone. Down to the roots, nothing left in or around that pot but a hoof print in a small pile of spilled dirt. Apparently moose really like basil.

Since then I have grown many a thing, raised many a chicken and survived the moose filled summers without another incident. What I has not happened is growing a potful of basil. I hear whispers from around the neighborhood of other basil eating incidents every summer. I wonder if is the same bull, or one of his calves. They still come to eat my trees and occasionally will sample the lettuce, but no one has ventured on my porch since that fateful day.

We have since gotten a compost/combustible toilet (burns it gone) and so we do not always have to go to the loo in the middle of the night in the middle of winter. I convinced Geoff we needed one after being emotionally and physically decimated from the Great Moose Stand-off of 2005. Maybe I can risk another pot of basil this year, Chicken wire this time? Perhaps surrounding it with my tomato plants? Surely it would be safe to try after seven years…naaa I will just buy it from those that do not have a basil thieving, hostage taking moose living in their neighborhood.

I was not always a writer and a book blogger. While finishing up my English and Journalism degree, I started my blog to talk about living in a dry cabin in Alaska. We had no internet here till late last summer so I did all my blogging via my iPhone, call it my own little social experiment. I had a serious blog that I had created for a class in social media. But what has become Cabin Goddess was a way to chat, show off my photography and stay in touch with friends in the lower 48.  Last summer I started eating better again, things slowed down with school wrapping up and I was able to start making my famous dishes and I blogged about them I became an aspiring foodie blogger. Sometime in the fall and early winter a bunch of aspiring indie authors found me and I discovered the world of book blogging. Today I write daily with my own book project, I post reviews of books I read and I still share my cooking even pairing it with a review for more fun, I still share my antics of cabin dwelling in the Interior of Alaska and share my photography and when I am not doing that I can be found cuddled on the couch with a crochet hood doing my zen crocheting. With a man, a cat, my kindle and a frying pan I always know I will get through the day, even if I cannot use fresh basil in my pasta sauce.

Thanks Kriss! Anyone who can get a moose and the word cahoonas in one post is welcome here any time!

Until the next time…I’ll be cooking up the next adventure at the Amityville farm!

just a little nookie

I feel like a bad girl. Like I’m doing something illicit. Some sort of affair. You know…getting lots and lots of…errr…nookie?

Oh, get your mind out of the gutter. Not that kind of nookie. I’m talking about my NOOK. You know…e-reading device? Downloading books? Reading? Yeah…I’m on a journey lately, and I haven’t come back just yet.

I talk about my OCD a lot, and honestly, I do sort of think of it fondly. It drives my husband crazy sometimes. Like when I listen to the same song over and over again for days on end. Or when I watch the same movie over and over again for days on end. Or read the same book…yeah, you get the idea, right? Well, it’s comforting to me. And once I burn the images or sounds into my brain and get over the obsession, I’m on to the next thing.

So, lately I’ve been on a reading kick. And admittedly, the stories I’m reading aren’t exactly the classics. They aren’t edited. They aren’t even good (although some are). But they are most definitely addicting. And so it starts. The newest O in my little world of OCD.

Fan fiction.

Ok, so yes…I’m embarrassed to admit what I’m reading, and so I won’t, not exactly. So keep it to yourself, ok? But only because I actually want to maintain some level of respectibility in the world. I will say it started with that new firestorm, best seller, crazy erotic fiction novel (and subsequent sequels), Fifty Shades of Grey. When I became completely obsessed after reading the series, and discovered it started out as fan fiction, I had to see what all the fuss was about.

And so it began.

I’ve been on a week long bender and I’ve barely come up for air. My husband is beginning to worry about me. And my eyes refuse to focus when I pull them away from the text on the screen. I may need an intervention here. But hold off until I get through the last several stories I downloaded. I need to read those first.

I’ll get back to you.

But for now, I have a date with my Nook, and probably an eye doctor.

Until the next time…I’ll be reading!

the lawnmower man

I’ve lived in this house for two months now. Sure, I still have a few unpacked boxes. Some things stacked in corners without a permanent home. Rooms that have yet to reach their full potential. Weeds in the yard, desperately waiting for my husband to fire up the landmower. Oh, he’s mowed the yard once or twice. Maybe a few more times than that…I’ve lost track. I mean, mowing the lawn isn’t exactly high on our priority list these days. It falls somewhere between unpacking the books that don’t have a shelf yet, and organizing my spices. But since I do actually cook (the bet be damned, I’ve done a lot of cooking around here!) the spices are in progress.

But despite the perpetual hush of our sad little push mower, I still hear the growling sound of a mower on a daily basis.

Because I live next door to the fucking lawn mower man!

Yep, that’s right. Sandwiched between me and the Goonies, lives a man who clearly needs more OCD therapy than I do. He has roughly two acres. Two acres that once belonged to the farm I live on. And he climbs aboard his trusty steed, firing up the engine on that bad boy to mow the crap out of those two acres.

Every. Freaking. Day.

And I do mean every freaking day since I moved in.

At first I thought I was just really bad at keeping track. I mean, who mows every day? I don’t think even Major League Baseball mows everyday (and guys, feel free to tell me if I’m wrong). But this guy…the very same guy who warned my husband about touching his do dong after pulling weeds (in case it was poison ivy) this guy loves his grass. I mean LOVES his grass. Or hates it. I guess I don’t know which. We love ours. We nuture it and watch it grow. Then we shoo the chickens to the long patches and wait for them to trim it down a little.

Lawn Mower Man rides around like a crazy man on a gas powered tractor slicing his grass at the knees, trampling what survives the blades with the wide tires of his beast. Yep, I’m thinking hate.

Well, I’m starting to work up a little hate on this side of the property line.

Hate for the sound of the engine roaring to life at eight am on a Saturday. Hate for the sound of the engine roaring to life at five-thirty pm on a Monday…or a Tuesday…a Wednesday…a…errr…you get the idea, right?

The man has no idea he’s a walking time bomb, just begging for a PMS attack to creep up on him like a fucking stealth ninja! Doesn’t he know I could just snap one day? They’ll find me, dressed in camoflage leggins, hiding in my tall grass, lobbing water balloons filled with weed killer into his yard.

Ok…so maybe I’m getting a little carried away. Maybe I should just bake him some cookies and leave a trail to my side of the property line. I mean, if he loves to mow that much, couldn’t he at least just ride on over here and do my lawn too?

After alll, isn’t that what they call being neighborly?

Until the next time…I’ll be playing my music loud enough to drown out the mower.

sometimes a rainy day is just what the doctor ordered

I used to dread a rainy day. Especially a rainy Monday. It tugged on my mood until it was dragging the muddy ground. But when my miserable sunny Monday morning twisted into a gloriously rainy Monday afternoon, I found myself switching sides.

I’m not the only wife to argue with her husband. I’m fairly certain. And with two very distinctively stubborn personalities, it always makes for an exciting showdown. So when I told Mike I wanted to stay in town after an argument, he didn’t put up a fuss.

He left me there.

Of course, I hadn’t quite thought things through. I was eight miles from home, no car, no husband, and I hadn’t had any breakfast, so I was cranky and hungry. But it was a beautiful day, so I resigned myself to wander the streets of Blue Ridge, looking for things to entertain me.

I had no idea they started the wine tasting so early in the morning. It was barely ten-thirty and I was sipping blueberry wine on an empty stomach. After a few different varieties, I wandered back to the streets to the next stop along the way, wondering how I was going to get home.

I texted the kids (they were due back to town sometime that morning) asking them to swing by to get me, and they told me they hadn’t left Atlanta yet. This meant I still had almost two hours to kill and I was already a litle tipsy.

Nothing like a few samples of fudge to take the edge off the hunger, right? Ok, so more than just a few samples. But who can resist homemade fudge?

I stopped at the local malt shop and grabbed a bite to eat and bit the bullet, calling my husband to come get me. I wasn’t giving in, mind you. He had already texted me to apologize for the argument. I can’t say I’d completely forgiven him yet, but I was running out of things to do.

By the time he arrived, and we finished eating (the burger I ordered was far more than I could eat alone, especially after several pieces of fudge) the skies had opened up and we found ourselves several blocks from the car, in the  middle of a deluge.

We stood under an awning, watching the rain fall as thunder shook the sky, and listened to an old man tell stories of what the tourist town was like when he was a kid. He pointed out the fudge shop across the way, and said it used to be a cafe. And the antique shop down the block had once been a hardware store. He talked about the time the river flooded and the dam broke, and how he and his sister had danced around in the muddy water as it washed out the sidewalks.

We were there for more than an hour as the rain beat down from above, listening to his fascinating tales, forgetting what we had argued about in the first place. When the rain let up a little, we made a run for it, laughing hysterically as we got thoroughly soaked on the way to the car.

By the time we got home, the sky was blue again…the last traces of rain all but gone. It was as if the rain had made a visit for the express purpose of holding us hostage under that awning with the man…forcing us to hear about a simpler time. A time we both yearned for, but had never truly understood. It was what drove us to move to the farm to begin with. And here we were, seeing it first hand through the eyes of someone who had lived it.

It really put things into perspective. Life has a crazy way of doing that, I guess.

Until the next time…I’ll be looking at rainy Monday’s with new eyes.

the blood of the first (week 5)

Weekly Vampire Serial Fiction.

The Daywalker ChroniclesThe Daywalker Chronicles, Season 2. The Blood of the First.

“Did you give her a kiss goodbye?” Elizabeth asked Sebastian, her lips twitching with a suppressed smile. It was obvious she was trying to lighten the mood. I had to give it to her. The girl was nothing like her sister. I felt sure Victoria would have maintained a more somber façade, under the circumstances.

Sebastian blinked at her, his face unreadable. “Can we just go?” He was holding something back.

With one last look around the foyer, I closed and locked the door behind us as Sebastian slid into the driver’s seat of his car, and the engine roared to life. I tried to let it go, but something I’d seen in his eyes bothered me. I had to ask.

“You were down there for quite a while. What the hell were you doing?”

“Will you never learn? What I do with my wife is none of your damned business,” he growled.

I paused, letting his words sink in. Of course, I read far more into it than he probably intended. “Dude, that’s just sick.” I interjected with a smirk, then instantly regretted it. The image of Sebastian crawling into the coffin with Victoria made my blood run cold.

Or colder.

“Just get in the fucking car.” Sebastian’s scowl told me he agreed with the sentiment. “I should rip your head off, but since I may need to sacrifice you at some point in the near future, I’ll pass.”

“Do you two always do this?” Lizzie asked as she climbed into the passenger seat.

“This?” I mused.

“This back and forth dance you do.” She wagged her finger between the two of us.

“Trust me, my dance card is full.” I smiled. “It has been since the day I met your sister, in fact.”

***

“Why do I have to go to bed? It’s not even morning yet,” I whined at her…my new mother. A woman I barely knew and yet, I felt as if I knew her better than anyone else.

 “Because, I need you to go to sleep before I go to bed.” She smiled at me. Her smile was always so stiff…she never showed her teeth.

“Will you punish me if I don’t go to sleep? Papa said you would bite if I was bad.”

She threw back her head and laughed, but I could see tears form at the corners of her eyes. “Your Papa was joking, Claude. I won’t bite you.”

“What if I wanted you to bite me?” I whispered. I was old enough to know what happened when Victoria bit someone. I paid attention.

Her smile vanished. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Now go to sleep,” she ordered, pulling back the covers on my bed.

I looked over her shoulder at the shiny white box where she slept each day. “Can I sleep with you?”

“No.” She shook her head and scooped me up, tucking me under my blanket.

“Why?  Papa let me sleep in his bed when I was frightened.”

Victoria’s eyes softened and she smiled again. “You have nothing to be frightened of.”

“You don’t know that,” I breathed, thinking back to the day Papa died. There was so much out there to be frightened of.

She wiped a tear from her cheek then pulled the covers up to my chin. “As long as I’m sleeping, you have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Victoria?”

“Yes, Claude?”

“Did you love my Papa?”

“Very much.”

I sat up then, reaching up to wrap my arms around her neck as tightly as I could. Her skin was cold, but I didn’t care. I loved her and I knew she would always watch out for me. “Goodnight Victoria.”

“Goodnight Claude.”

And one day I would watch over her.

Until the next time…I’ll be working on week 6