Drink Deep - Chloe Neill [58]
The house had a basement in which my mother had stored the pottery kiln she’d purchased when ceramics had become her temporary obsession. She kept the kiln immaculately clean, but it was the only clean item in the basement; the rest had been dark, cold, damp, and spidery.
“Not unlike this one,” I muttered, finally reaching the concrete floor and peeking around the corner.
A single, white-hot bulb hung down into the room. There was no sign of the source of the vinegary smell, but the scent was definitely stronger down here. Mallory sat at a giant worktable made from sawhorses and sheets of plywood. Books and bowls of unidentifiable bits were stacked feet high upon it, as were a variety of potted plants. Some looked like regular houseplants; others had viciously pointy leaves with crimson-red tips or thick, luscious leaves that looked like they were full to bursting with water.
Mallory’s ice-blue hair—now showing a little blond at the roots—was pulled into a ponytail, and black headphones covered her ears. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks looked a little more gaunt than usual. The exams must have been taking their toll.
She spit out lyrics with nimble speed while she perused a hefty book that sat open on the tabletop before her. She was oblivious while I picked through the maze of cardboard boxes, unused furniture, and waiting bags of ice melt that covered the basement floor . . . and she jumped when I put a can of soda on the table.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt, Merit!” she exclaimed, ripping off the headphones. “What are you doing here? I nearly zapped you into next month.”
“Sorry. You were busy communing with Kanye. What’s with the smell?”
Mallory pointed to a series of homemade wooden shelves tucked into a nook across from the table. It was probably eight feet tall, and each of the shelves was lined with rows of home-canned fruits and vegetables. I could identify pickles, apples, and tomato sauce. The rest of the jars were a mystery. But the vinegar smell wasn’t—there was an empty slot on the pickle row.
“Missing a jar?”
“I blasted one of Aunt Rose’s pickle jars,” Mallory said, looking down at her book again. She’d inherited the town house, and its contents, when her aunt died a few years ago. Since the jars had been sitting in the same spot unused, Mal apparently wasn’t a fan of her aunt’s canned goods.
“I didn’t even know this stuff was down here.”
“I didn’t bring any jars upstairs,” she flatly said. “They didn’t taste very good. They were garlic-spiced apples.”
I wrinkled my lip. “Foul.”
“Hella foul. After that, I didn’t open another jar. Until last night. And that wasn’t on purpose.”
“Funny the pickles didn’t make it smell like dill.”
“No dill,” Mallory said. “Just vinegar. I think Aunt Rose’s sense of taste was a little off. Too bad she hadn’t at least thrown some garlic into it. And it wouldn’t have even bothered you, since you aren’t that kind of vampire.”
She was right that garlic wasn’t the vamp repellent of myth; on the other hand, the thought of a basement sprayed down with garlic and vinegar didn’t exactly make me eager for a visit, either.
“That is true.” I plopped the care package onto a clean strip of table. “And speaking of snacks, this is for you.”
Without a word, she closed her book, then looked inside the bag and pulled out the bag of nuts and fruit, which she pulled open with her teeth. After pouring some into her hand—which was seriously chapped, like it had been one of the last times I’d seen her—she extended it to me, and I rooted around until I found a couple of whole cashews.
“Thanks,” I said, enjoying the satisfying snap when I broke them in half with my teeth. “How are exams?”
“Complicated. Lots of math. It’s not like the exams Catcher took,” she said, with a little feistiness. “He’s been out of the Order for years more. He’s not exactly up to speed on sorceress testing procedures.”
I guessed she and Catcher had exchanged some words about the tests. “I see,” I said neutrally.
A low cry suddenly lit through the air. I heard shuffling