Hell's Rayne (Book 1)

Chapter 23

The tension over the dinner table was so thick you could have sliced straight through it with the kitchen knife Maura held in her hand. Deftly, she divided up portions of a home-made chicken pie and slid each perfect slice of flaky pastry and creamy filling onto each plate in turn. Mine came last.

The table had been set for four but, as Jesse and I entered the kitchen to take our places, Patrick was in the process of laying out another; though who the fifth dinner guest was remained a mystery. This was something else that appeared to have annoyed Jesse's mother, a unexpected dinner guest – in the form of myself – when she had already catered for four, all that careful planning and organisation thrown out of the window.

Still, it wasn't as if there was too little food to go around. Each plate groaned beneath the weight of the pie and accompanying mounds of buttery potatoes and veg. She may resented my presence in her house during their time of grieving, but it seemed no guest would ever leave Maura's kitchen at dinner time hungry, welcome or not.

“You're certain he is still coming?” Patrick asked, warily, as he took his seat and eyed the laden plate at the head of the table, it's place still vacant and waiting.

“Yes, I rang him this morning. He said he would be busy most of the day, phone calls with the insurance company and things to take care of, but he assured me that he'd be here for dinner. Eric knows well enough what time I serve, he'll be along shortly I have no doubt,” Maura replied, though a frown deepened the creases ever present in her brow and displayed yet more displeasure. Whoever Eric was, he was already late for dinner and keeping Maura waiting when she had made you food was apparently something that you just didn't do.

“Eric's coming?” Jesse asked, pausing the path of his loaded fork on its way to his mouth. He looked somewhat anxious and put out by the prospect of this other dinner guest, and it made me much more curious about who this 'Eric' person was.

“Of course dear,” Maura replied kindly, though her face lost none of its stern expression, “if I weren't feeding him the poor boy would have starved half to death over the last couple of weeks. It's the least I can do, after all, family should stick together at times like this.” She glared across the table at the two of us, though mostly at me and it made me glad I would not be imposing upon her hospitality for much longer.

“Well, eat up everyone, don't want it getting cold,” Maura commanded, “Patrick dear, place Eric's in the warmer for me, he'll just have to eat when he finally manages to get here.”

Though she appeared mildly disgruntled that this Eric person had not turned up on time for her impeccable, home cooked meal, she seemed to have a fondness for him that couldn't be shaken. I started to feel an inkling growing about who this person must be. If I was right, from what I'd seen in his dreams while I poked around inside Jesse's head, dinner could suddenly become a much more interesting experience that I'd first anticipated.

Obligingly, I started to eat; I didn't want to incur any of Maura's wrath should I disobey what appeared to have been an order, and besides, I was hungry. The food was undeniably good. Alongside grieving and planning a funeral, who found the time to make their own flaky pastry pie top? Or were repetitive, time consuming and monotonous tasks a good way to deal with your grief – or to ignore it. Either way, I was happy to reap the benefits. Good food was one of the few things about the surface that I would never tire of; as much as I longed to be back home in Hell, I knew I wouldn't see another meal like this for some time.

We were about halfway through our meal – near silent eating interspersed with rare snippets of frosty conversation – when the front door suddenly slammed and the sound of footsteps could be heard from in the hall.