Consumed » Kai Parker | Rewritten

Five

Unfortunately, a reluctant alliance with Kai Parker means avoiding him for majority of the next morning–and afternoon–would only be counterproductive.

I walk into the kitchen with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner stepping up to their fatal turn on death row.

Kai's humming an unfamiliar tune at the stove, flipping a pancake on a skillet with practiced precision.

He glances up, offering a smile. "Good morning."

His cheerfulness might be less questionable, had he taken the latter half of yesterday and the night before to stew in his anger. But mere seconds after I'd stopped holding a knife over his heart–hell, even during–Kai's behavior never quite teetered irreversibly into a zone defined by stoicism. Like most killers who are holding a serious grudge might.

The prison world was his playground and it seems, after years of boredom, he was just happy to have a new toy.

During the car ride back to the boarding house, he'd chatted my ear off topics entirely irrelevant to the only matter that I'd be interested in discussing–our escape–and I tuned him out with the rather effective tune of existential dread. Well, that and Nirvana.

The sun had been setting, light drifting drearily through the canopy that opened up to the lonely boarding house, and I'd quickly excused myself to bed before Kai could crank his incessant speech up a notch.

I look at the man wearily now as I make my way to the fridge and manage only a stiff nod in lieu of a greeting.

"Want a pancake?"

"No," I respond, pulling a half-gallon of milk out of the fridge before shutting it.

"Suit yourself. But just so it's out there, I'm a master at making sure they have just the right amount of fluff. And if you're a person who likes those crunchy, slightly burnt edges, I can–"

"I'll just have cereal," I cut him off, swiping an empty bowl and the box of Cheerios from the cabinet, then stalk back to the dining table.

"Oookay. But I give it an hour tops before you're hungry again." He shrugs. "Not everyone's enlightened in the art of maximizing the day's breakfast."

Not everyone's enlightened in the art of shutting the hell up, either, I refrain from childishly grumbling, while pouring cereal into my bowl.

The newspaper is laid out across the table, the gory headline intent on ruining my appetite. Disgruntled, I hastily flip to a random section, settling for the box office reviews. When A Man Loves A Woman had a decent turnout for its second week. I eat a spoonful of Cheerios and try to preoccupy myself with the details on the magic of Meg Ryan.

With a stack of golden-brown pancakes that makes my breakfast look impossibly meager, Kai takes his seat across from me. I spare him a glance that hopefully doesn't betray my bitter longing, then flip wordlessly to the next page in the Arts section.

"So..." He speaks up, drizzling maple syrup on his pancakes. "Last of the magic that I stole from Liv drained away overnight."

"Things that don't belong to you tend not to linger," I answer sweetly.

He rolls his eyes. "The spirits crafted me to steal, the way I see it. People seek equilibrium, naturally. I seek magic whenever I can get it to keep the cravings at bay. Like vampires and blood bags, but less messy. But I don't really expect you to understand that, so you just go about your business as a human with all bark and no bite, and I'll go about mine, okay?"