Chapter 14: The Next Recipe

Akewillow Chapter 14 The Next Recipe

What happened? I thought this was the night everything was going to be made right, but here I sit, collapsed on the floor with my face covered in tears. I'm bruised, shaking, and judging by the wet itch on my forearms, cut and bleeding. My ears are ringing from the interminable firefight in which I was caught. But the worst of it all is the Aquilo. Ostensibly the only good thing to have happened to me in the last few months, the quaint little café lies in absolute ruins.

Through blurry eyes I look around and I can't find a single piece of glass that hasn't been cracked or shattered. Large portions of the furniture have been broken down to splinters. either smashed by the demon or blasted apart by the Inquisition. The Inquisition. I wipe the tears away with my wrists at first, only resorting to the apron when that proves ineffective.

Then I turned to look at those who were meant to be my benefactors. I put myself at their mercy and they, in turn, destroyed one of the only things I'd come to cherish here in Aquilo. orleans stands over the table at which they sat before the carnage smoke still floating from the barrel of his weapon he's smiling from ear to ear with what might pass for serenity in his eyes

The short Inquisitor has always struck me as a kind man. Of the two, he was the one with the level head and the pleasant demeanor. I can't say that's changed. In fact, he looks even more at peace with the world. but that's after eating a full plate of violence. Alessandria is a surprise of a different kind. The tall Inquisitor has lost the color in her face, leaving it an ashen gray.

Never peaceful or even a little friendly, she never lacked for life until now. Her eyes, round and unblinking, survey the destruction as if she'd woken up to a nightmare. She participated in the demolition of Doris's café with the same joyful abandon as Orléans, feasting on the same buffet of destruction. But it looks like she may not be digesting her meal very well.

There's an audible grinding of Alessandria's teeth as her jaw sets. The tendons in her neck are clearly visible from the tension she's experiencing. Part of me wants to sympathize with what she seems to be going through. A natural inclination of mine to share in other people's pain. The other part of me wants to blow her head off with her own gun. Why?

I ask the question loud and angry. Aside from the rubbing of teeth and the clicking of clips being removed from pistols, it's the only sound in the cafe. It might as well be the only sound in all of Aquilo. We thought it'd be coming from the back, Orléans explains, running his fingers through his thin hairline. And when it crashed through the front, we had to wait until it crossed over to the U.S. side of the border. Different laws and all that.

I pull myself to my feet, frustration obscuring the pain of strained and battered limbs. No! I wave my hand in a large, all-encompassing arc, covering the whole of the aquilo behind me. Why? Orléon follows my meaning and his smile softens, the squint in his eyes vanished, replaced by an arching of his eyebrows. I don't know if I believe the apparent contrition. I don't know if I want to believe it anymore.

Unnecessary evil, I'm afraid, he says. That's a hunger demon. We weren't going to be able to kill it. It can't die, cursed to suffer insatiable starvation for eternity. Hunger, but never able to eat anything that satisfies. It was important to damage it enough that it would need a day or two to mend before seeking to satisfy its urges again. Otherwise, it would have gone for another victim. Equal parts anger and fascination fight for control of my senses.

On the one hand, this explains so much. The need for new organs to hijack so the creature can eat and digest, along with the desperate cries of the damned monster. On the other... Why did the Aquilo have to suffer so badly? Glass crunches under my feet as I turn slowly on my heels to look at the destruction anew. I want to think that it's not so bad. After all, there are perhaps three tables still standing and with only superficial damage to their surfaces.

The walls and ceiling have been torn apart by bullets and claws, tossing drywall into the air and exposing wooden beams and electrical wiring, like the bones and organs of a murder victim. But the structure is unaffected. The front window is the most dramatic-looking part of the carnage, leaving a gaping wound at the front of the aquilo, allowing the early fall air to cool my sweating skin.

The display case, the cash register, the evil coffee machine, all of them are damaged or destroyed. Every frame and every picture from the walls has been taken down by gunfire or demonic violence. Like a miracle, the only thing that seems to remain intact on any wall of the cafe is the row of wooden spoons above the cash register.

Each of my predecessors' names seems to be looking down on me from their brass plaque, each more disappointed than the last. Only Doris's spoon is missing from the lineup, nestled instead in the large pocket of her apron.

My left hand reaches down, touching the grain of its handle for comfort, or perhaps to ask her forgiveness for what's happened to the café. Miss Dufour? Alessandria's voice hesitates as she calls out. Miriam? I only now realize that I've been walking towards the counter, one slow step at a time, picking my way through the ruins of the Aquilo. My limbs freeze at the mention of my name, not because it's being called out, but because of who's using it.

there's an odd pain in my belly when i think of alisandria's face in the wake of the carnage she helped perpetrate it feels like my stomach is filled with boiling tears equal parts shared sadness and incandescent anger She had a relationship with the cafe that I wasn't aware of. Then again, doesn't everyone in town have some connection to this place?

Under normal circumstances, I would want nothing more than to hear what that history is. But these are not normal circumstances. And right now, I just want to tell her to take whatever she's going to say and shove it. My entire body stiffens as her large hand falls on my shoulder. It's as much from being startled at her touch as it is bristling at the unwelcome familiarity. But her palm is heavy and her fingers gentle.

And I'm not sure if I want to punch her or reach over and put my own hand over hers. I'm sorry, she says, her voice almost a whisper. It's tempting to snap at her, and a half-formed protest rises in my throat, stopped only when I realized Alessandra's apology isn't meant for me. It's for the Aquilo. It's for Doris.

So I go against the grain and do what I don't want to. My hand tightens around the wooden spoon and I press my eyelids tight together. Then I reach up with my right hand and put it over Alessandria's. Not because it's what I want to do. God knows how I hate doing it. But I think that's what Doris would have done. And right now, that seems more important than whatever petty comeback I had baking inside.

It takes an interminable amount of time, but her hand eventually slips from under mine and off my shoulder. My eyes crack open, taking in the nightmare reality once more. my sneakers crush more broken glass as i resume my stride towards the counter with care i slide my fingers across the wooden surface pushing debris and dust aside as i do

For two weeks, this is where I hid from the rest of Aquilo. From behind that line, I kept my distance from the townsfolk, defining myself as an alien in their culture. That line blurred day after day until I didn't recognize it any longer. And now it's gone in more ways than one. Hey, buddy. I speak softly to the coffee machine. It answers my touch with a soft hiss, and I'm not sure that I should be reassured that it still has breath, or worried that it might have been its last.

I finally stand in front of the display case, spiderwebs of cracks spread out from four neat holes at the top. A handful of these cracks break apart where the demon broke through the glass. the remains of which now cover a handful of chocolate croissants, cinnamon brioche, and a row of cookies. Dust powders the treats like a sprinkling of sugar. Not all spots in the display have leftovers from the day in them.

Most are empty by now, but only one, the very bottom near the middle, has traces of the demon's claws. The green and white checkered wax paper is shredded to pieces, and even the metal basket underneath, where pastries and cookies would have sat, is now twisted and broken. a testimony to the deadly potential of the creature's claws. I've never used the bottom row of the display. Even as I baked and cooked for customers of the Aquilo, being slowly absorbed into the community,

I always had it in the back of my head that this was a temporary arrangement. That, in time, I'd be on my way. So I never fully invested myself into the café. Never completely committed to filling the pantries and building a full menu of snacks, meals, and baked goods. My knees bend and I lower myself to my haunches. It hurts, but I barely register any of it.

Instead, my focus is on the mangled basket in the torn paper. I pick up a piece of the ladder, rubbing it between my fingers, trying to get a sense of what might have been there once. Lights, blue and red, flash from the street, and I can hear a commotion of car doors and footsteps, but again, that's not where my attention is at. What's your usual? I ask, no one present.

There's no deus ex machina that prevents the cops from cuffing and arresting the Inquisition. They don't flash badges that suddenly make the police back off or make a quick phone call that allows them to walk away. Orléans and Alessandria show their weapon permits, but otherwise relinquish their guns without protest. Alessandria is more passive than I've ever seen. Every ounce of fight drained out of her.

One of the officers pats her down, and she seems to barely notice, too busy looking around the ravaged café. There is a bit of a debate between the Quebec Provincial Police and the cops from Vermont as to what jurisdiction this falls under.

But Orléans was right to be careful. Having discharged their weapons only on the U.S. side seems to work in their favor, and while they are being taken away, there's something in the Inquisitor's smile that tells me they won't be behind bars for long. What happened here? It's Detective Wilson, and for the second time in three days, I'm glad to see him stride in like the noir star he thinks he is. He tiptoes through the rubble, ignoring his colleagues, walking a careful line directly towards me.

He's almost as conscientious not to disturb the scene as L'amour was when I found Clara, and when he gets close enough, he reaches out to pull my hands from the display case. You wouldn't believe me if I told you. My words fall out in a whisper, like heavy smoke that I've been holding in. Wilson shrugs and puts his hands in the pocket of his raincoat. He very nearly leans on the counter before catching himself. This is Akewillow. Try me.

There was a demon, and they tried to kill it. With very loud guns. A succinct explanation, but if he doesn't believe that part, he's certainly not going to care about the details. It's hard to decide if I would rather he not believe me and leave me alone, or that he did and that I would have a sympathetic ear to complain to. I've heard crazier. You know those guys in white robes? The cloud worshippers? Yeah.

They think the cloud is the physical manifestation of some dead woman they're all in love with. Very complicated and nuttier than a granola bar. I chuckle. It does sound crazy. Not that my situation isn't just as crazy. Do you believe them, or do you just believe that they believe it? His lips stretch into a thin smile, and he frowns a little while nodding. All right, you got me. I'm not completely on board with the demon theory.

If I believed every harebrained story in this town, I couldn't do my job properly. Call it healthy skepticism. Hard to admit, but he's got a point. The Miriam Dufour that's bleeding from cuts on her forearms and kneeling on bruised legs is far more open to the supernatural than the Miriam Dufour that arrived in Aquilo two weeks ago. I'd have a hard time keeping an objective outlook.

Fortunately, my job here didn't require me to be objective. It demanded only empathy. And right now, as I look around my great-grandaunt's legacy, that empathy is backfiring. Let me get someone to have a look at that. Wilson nods towards my arms. Then I'll need you to give a statement. Can I do it here, or do I have to go back to the station? Wilson seems to give my question considerable thought.

theatrically rubbing his chin and scratching his hair for emphasis. He should take me in, I suppose, and we both know that's not something I'm willing to do. You know what? You're in shock and talking nonsense right now. Let's get those wounds cleaned and bandaged, and I'll take you somewhere safe for the night. How does that sound? Nonsense? Demons and nonsense, he winks. I get it.

This is my get-out-of-an-uncomfortable-situation-free card. And I take it. Yeah, it was demons. And I'll call Olivia Figg to see if she doesn't mind taking me in again.

The guest room is the same as I remember, except a little less dusty this time. Everything creaks and groans at my touch and under my feet. It's annoying, but also comforting. Each sound is a reminder of both a more innocent time and that I'm somewhere safe. I'm sorry for being a bother again, I say, putting my bag on the bed. I really owe you.

Mm-hmm, Olivia answers. I'm unclear if she agrees I'm indebted or acknowledging that she's listening. I'll brew us up a cup and we can talk about it if you want. I don't want to impose. There's no answer or further comment, but I know Olivia hasn't left the room she's guided me to. I turn and see exactly what I expected. My first and best friend in Aquilo, standing in the door with a pitying look in her eyes, appraising me.

looking for where to best offer support. What's your usual, Miriam? I'm sorry? What do you take in your coffee? After a few minutes, we're both sitting in her living room, hot mugs in our hands and some microwaved apple strudels between us. I could do a better job, of course, but there's a certain delight in savoring the imperfection in Olivia's cooking.

There's too much sugar and the apples are a little overcooked, but they taste honest. Just like the woman that made them, they embrace their flaws and are the better for it. Aren't we going to wake him up? I ask, pointing my mug towards Henry. Like the first time I met him, Olivia's husband is asleep in his armchair, snoring softly while the television tells him stories he ignores. Him? He'd have slept through everything you endured at the Aquilo. Hank!

Henry grumbles something unintelligible, but otherwise doesn't stir. See? Like a corpse. I giggle, trying to keep my voice low. It's hard to admit, but I feel good and safe. It's only when my mind strays back to the Aquilo Cafe and its ravaged interior that my cheer and comfort falter. Girl? Olivia reaches out, seeing that my thoughts are wandering again. It's just a coffee shop. The statement comes as a surprise. The Aquilo isn't...

just a coffee shop. She, along with so many others, have said so with their words and actions. They've all worked so hard to convince me that it is anything but a simple cafe. Doris went through the trouble of putting a clause in her inheritance, I explain, that the Equilo Café should only end up in the hands of one of her descendants in the line of succession.

Helen Edna still won't allow me to ignore that clause. If it was that important to Doris, then it's not just a cafe. Olivia nods and takes a sip of coffee.

Her kind eyes stay on me, but she doesn't acknowledge my statement immediately either. Instead, she picks up a strudel and takes a large bite, allowing flaking crust to cover the front of her sweatshirt. Well then, what's your plan? My plan? I don't have a plan. I was much too busy having survived a shootout between two maniacs and a demon to have thought of a plan.

Enjoying what security I can find in the creature comforts of a cozy house is as much of a plan as I can make at this juncture in time. Except I can probably do more than that. I'll talk to Helen tomorrow and see if the Aquilo had any insurance. If that's not enough, I'll see about mortgaging repairs on the sale value of the property.

I can't possibly sell it in its current state, so I'm hoping the bank will be on my side. If that fails, maybe Julia Remington will be kind enough to loan me the money, and... My voice trails off. Olivia is smiling in that sort of self-satisfied way people do when they feel like they're right. Mm-hmm, she says as if making a point. That's what Doris would have done.

The Aquilo's not about the walls and the furniture. Sure, the place has a certain cachet, but its soul was Doris. This is why people are so glad to see you in the kitchen and wearing that apron. Olivia gestures to the white apron I'm still wearing, pointing specifically at the embroidered aquilo tree on the front. You bring the soul back to the cafe, she continues. You'll rebuild and repair and it'll be different and smell too new for a little while.

But you'll be there. There'll be a Dufour in the kitchen, and that's all the Aquilo needs. It's such a heartwarming idea and a lovely compliment, but I don't think Olivia appreciates that it also comes with a side dish of responsibility that I'm not sure I want to shoulder. I've told you before, I'm not staying. Maybe I'll see those repairs through, but after I sell the Aquilo, I'm going back to Montreal. Mm-hmm. Right. I admit I was hesitating for a while, but Olivia...

That was a genuine demon in there and those two inquisitors damn near killed me. If this is the sort of thing that Doris was dealing with regularly, I want no part of it. But you handled it. It's not Olivia that answers me but rather Henry. He must have been listening for a while lying quietly on his chair while I laid my heart out. But he's leaning over now and his eyes have none of the kindness Olivia usually showers me with.

Instead, they're all intensity, nearly black in the dark living room, only occasionally reflecting the light of the television. I know what you're going to say, I reply. I handled it like Doris would have. Nah, girl, he says, shaking his head, but there's still no smile or comfort woven with what he's saying. Doris would have known better what to do. She was an old hand at this sort of thing. You handled it like Miriam Dufour handled it.

I don't know what you did, but you're here, now, alive, and making plans to repair your great-grandaunt's legacy. If this is as bad as things are going to get for you in Aquilo, you'll do fine. Better than fine.

You'll thrive. Have you ever had something so horrible happen that when you wake up the next day, you immediately assume it was a nightmare? That's how my brain interpreted the night's events. Nothing more than a bad dream, a twisted figment of imagination gone rogue while I slept. Waking up in an unfamiliar bed, even less familiar than Doris's, and the scant few hours of restless slumber are enough to confirm my worst fears.

The nightmare is real, and I have to go back and confront it. Bright side is, I'm not going alone. And this time, the ally I'm bringing is one I can trust. Or rather, I should say, she's bringing me. Olivia parks a block from the Aquilu, just around the same spot she always does. Even from this distance, I can see that not all is well. There's still a cop car in front of the cafe, and the glitter of shattered glass litters the sidewalk.

As we approach, yellow tape catches the sun. The weather has no business being this cheerful. Clear blue skies with a warm wind and only the single thick cloud to stare down on us. The cop, a young officer maybe five years older than me, who's probably used to doing traffic stops, lets us in. The place is even more of a mess in the daylight.

Nothing has been taken or moved. Bits of colored tape indicate where bullets hit the wall or furniture, but otherwise the internal organs of the Aquilo remain untouched. Olivia takes it all in with me. replaying my story in her head before walking to and opening the back door. There's your problem, she says, swinging the door open all the way. There's a salt circle right in front of the threshold and another one around the dumpsters.

Those little bastards. I kick at the salt and send white powder flying in the wind. They're trying to get me killed. Now, now, Olivia says, reaching for my arm. I'm sure they meant well. They were probably trying to keep the demon out of the cafe for your sake. They messed up the plan! Would it have played out any differently if they hadn't? It wouldn't have.

Orléans and Alessandria would have been faster to draw their guns. I may not have had to run around so much to stay alive, but the Aquilo would be just as riddled with bullets as it is now. Nothing would have changed. Nothing important.

They're just raccoons, I protest, despondent. You know better than that. Looking at the green metal containers, streaks of rust on the outside and possibly a nursery of sleeping raccoons inside, I lean down and pick up an empty box of salt. I suppose I do. It feels odd not being able to offer Olivia a cup of coffee. Push comes to shove, I could go upstairs and use Doris's machine, but it would feel like a betrayal of the steampunk contraption on the counter.

Olivia reaches into her purse and pulls out a small spiral notebook and a cheap little pen, the kind of thing you get at the dollar store in packs of twelve. She puts the cap in her mouth and starts looking around the dining room anew. She's no longer seeing the events I recounted for her. Rather, she's appraising the current state of the place, jotting down everything she sees. Well, they sure did a number on the walls, didn't they? And the furniture.

Oh my, what kind of guns did they have? I watch her pacing the room, taking notes. I don't think Olivia is much of a contractor, and I doubt she's giving the Aquilo a proper diagnostic. But she's the kind of woman who knows everyone in town. They didn't go into the kitchen, did they? She asks with concern. I hadn't thought about that, but apart from maybe a few stray bullets, the kitchen remains untouched.

Now that I think of it, that's one blessing in disguise. The kitchen is where the really expensive equipment is. I can only imagine how bad things would have gotten if the demon had torn the stove apart, or if the Inquisition had riddled the refrigerator with bullet holes. Or caught me when it attacked? No, I answer. They stayed here and destroyed the coffee machine register and display case instead.

My words are bitter, but I hope Olivia knows someone who might be able to resurrect the coffee machine. The register I couldn't care less for, but the coffee machine and I had just started to find some common ground. Despite our tempestuous relationship, I can't imagine the Aquila without it. I take a quick survey of the kitchen, and to my relief, there doesn't seem to be much damage.

The backsplash over the sink is broken, and a jar of pickled jalapenos was shattered in the commotion, but everything of value remains intact. The wall separating both rooms hasn't fared quite as well, however. The punch of bullets from the other side has cracked the old heavy plaster and tiles. But that's just superficial stuff. It shouldn't be too expensive to repair. I hope.

The kitchen isn't bad, I say, walking back to Olivia with my good news. The walls are a little... I stop short. Olivia is gone. I scan the dining room and there's no trace of her, no sound to indicate where she might have gone, or reply to acknowledge she heard me, just the steady wind blowing from the back door, across the dining room, and out the gaping hole in the front window. Olivia?

She pops up from behind the counter with a curious look on her face. One eyebrow arches while the other frowns. In her hand, she presents the twisted remains of a metal basket with shredded checkered paper. Did you underestimate the demand for pistachio cakes, she asks, following the question with a large smile. It's a joke. I know that. But it doesn't register that way.

The humor passes through me, leaving only the relevant fact. The demand for what? Pistachio marzipan cakes. Or petit four, as Doris called them, because she was fancy like that. That's what you put in this basket all the time. Pistachio marzipan petit four. It's a little fancy for a coffee shop to have on the menu.

It's also more work than I'd want to put compared to cookies, brownies, and muffins. I can understand slaving over croissants, but those are a staple of cafes from Paris to Montreal. Pistachio, marzipan, petit four? That's an oddly specific snack. Did Doris really have so much demand for that particular dessert to keep it in stock and give it its own spot in the display? Yes, she did.

Miriam? Olivia calls as I bolt out of the Aquilo's front door. Where are you going? My feet slip from under me as I climb the stairs up to Doris's apartment, and my fingers tremble as I struggle with the keys. I drop the keychain just as Olivia catches up to me, her breath still a few steps behind. Miriam, what is it?

The words to answer her won't come. My mind is too cluttered to compose the right sentence to satisfy her curiosity and ease her worry. To do so would be like trying to pick the flour out of pancake batter. The bolt clicks and the door swings open. There's dust in the air and I can see a few pieces of blown out hardwood where the floor was blasted by shots from below. This should worry me.

How much damage was done to the apartment? What important artifacts and irreplaceable souvenirs were destroyed by stray bullets? What about the appliances in the kitchen? But I don't care. The broken floor and single shattered picture frame barely register. Instead, I race to the kitchen. All trace of reverence is forgotten. There is no hesitation. Urgency supersedes deference and respect.

I must know. The cupboard door flies open and I pull out Doris's recipe book. There's no time to set it on the counter or on the kitchen table, so I dropped my ass on the kitchen floor. My fingers, still nervous but nimble and hurried now, flip through pages. And there it is. The recipe for pistachio marzipan petit four. Doris's recipe. Miriam!

Olivia shouts after me. Miriam, what is it? What's wrong? She looks over my shoulder at the book, recognizing the recipe, but as I look up, all I see is concern and confusion. She doesn't know. She doesn't get it. There's nothing wrong. I smile, taking note of the page and slamming the book shut. You're worrying me, girl. Are you sure everything's okay?

I hate not giving her answers, but I've never been so manic in my life. I struggle to my feet, my eyes darting around the kitchen, trying my best to remember what ingredients are already here, what I'll need from downstairs, and what I might need to go purchase. Olivia still holds her little notebook with a list of repairs that the Aquila will be needing, but all of that has slipped from my mind. I snatch the notebook and pen from her hands and wink at her. Nothing a little baking won't fix.

Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot, narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to hear more, please rate and review us on Apple Podcasts or your preferred podcast platform. You have no idea how much it helps. Questions? Comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail dot com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.