Vengeance (Burning Beliefs #2)

Chapter Fifteen *edited*

GRACIE'S POV

I sneeze again. Goddammit, this is gettting annoying.

I've never been much of a cook. To be honest, it was pretty much salad and chicken most nights. But I printed off a recipe, and made about a billion batches, just to understand why he does it.

Cupcakes.

Millions, and millions, of cupcakes. They have blue frosting, orange frosting, green and yellow and red, sometimes rainbow, with a million different colors. There are some with gooey shoplifted chocolate chips, some fancy looking with cinnamon, some a plain mess, some with fruit or too much sugar, or Hershey's bars on top, or candies arranged in letters across the top.

I understand now.

The guys are out at some bar wherever. Dean said they "needed some air" but I'm sure they're just using it to gossip, contemplate, and formulate. It other words: they're deciding what to do about me.

Zephira has gone into town, at a "business meeting" for her "important job" in the "city" where she is an "executive officer" or whatever. All that means to me is that she's actually gone for the weekend.

The oven beeps. I squeal in excitement, and clamp my oven mitts over the edges of the sizzling pan. Leftover, burnt batter on the sides of the cupcake holders have turned black, bubbled, and crinkled. The shining tops of the actual dessert smell like heaven. These ones are vanilla.

"It smells like Denmark in here, what are you --" Dean says as he enters through the door. "Not you, too."

Dad is the last one in, so he shuts the door behind him. Sam gives me a look, his eyebrows arched.

"Gracie?" the younger brother asks.

"Dad, can I talk to you?" I say timidly. "Alone?"

Sam's eyes shift into that dawn of understanding. He starts backing up, towards the entrance again, always keeping his eyes locked on mine.

"We should go to that... place we were talking about earlier," he says.

Dean's eyes narrow. "Whatever she has to say, she should say it to us. We've discuessed secrets before."

"It's not really a secret, Dean."

"What's that supposed to -- oh. Oh."

Dad looks at them, completely confused. "Did I miss something?"

"No," I roll my eyes. "Just go, you two. You're going to make it worse."

"Make what worse?"

Dean smiles at him satirically before leaving the room. "Good luck."

My father turns slowly back in my direction. His ocean eyes are wide, innocent, impossibly young. It makes me feel so much worse about what I'm going to tell him.

He strides slowly to the counter, gazing at every single decorated dozen. Some are displays. I made one look like the American flag, and the other look like the Eiffel tower. Others are just... messes. I tried to do that curly thing with the frosting, but it ended up looking like I just splatted it on there with a spoon. There's still lines of batter scraped out along the inside of a few bowls, with the mixer plugged into the wall, endless utensils stacked up in the sink, and the aroma of doughy and warm cupcakes in the air.

"Oh, I made a Christmas tree too, do you want to see it?" I ask nervously.

He nods nonchalantly. With a tight smile, I lead him over to the dining room table. It took a couple dozen for this one. It's all green (I had to buy a couple more bottles of food coloring), with jelly beans stringed in a pattern like tinsel. The base is cinnamon candies, with every layer of leaves leading in a pyramid up to a sparkling sugar star. It glimmers in the light, a shade of yellow VanGough would've used.