The loud, unmistakable sound of glass shattering against a solid surface reverberated through the air like a gunshot. Moments later, a terrified, “uh-oh,” followed by the sound of claws skidding across wooden flooring echoed through the house.
Zeara jumped up from where she’d been huddled on the couch, looking over budget figures, and frowned at the dark blur that sky rocketed up the stairs. “Magus Faxfire! You better not have been in the kitchen. So help me, if I find a broken plate on my floor, your rear is grounded. Do you hear me?”
Knowing she’d get no response, Zeara stared at the doorway of the kitchen in dread of what she’d find. Considering it was almost midnight, she wasn’t exactly in the mood to spend the next thirty minutes scouring her floor for any glass she’d missed after an initial sweep. She knew if she didn’t, though, she’d find it sooner or later with her foot. With her luck, her naked foot, at four in the morning while holding something particularly fragile or important in her hands.
Reluctantly, she made her way to the kitchen entrance and flipped the light switch on. Sure enough, barely recognizable pieces of a plate lay scattered in a haphazard fashion across the floor. Chunks of recently gnawed-on pumpkin bread decorated the crime scene alongside the plate it once graced.
“Oh, he is so grounded,” Zeara muttered as she stared at the mess.
Her gaze traveled across the kitchen and landed on the closet that she kept all her cleaning supplies in— including the damn broom. Transferring her gaze to her bare toes, Zeara chewed on her bottom lip and contemplated her conundrum. To clean the mess so she wouldn’t get hurt, she needed the broom. To get the broom, she’d need to get over the mess without harming her feet. Irritation flared to life within her, like the scathing burn of a thorn still embedded in the flesh. She did not want to go all the way to the front door to put her shoes on. Her stubborn streak demanded that she map out every possible route that might end up in a successful trip to the supply closet that involved no band-aids, tweezers, or cussing streaks later.
Fifteen minutes later, even her stubborn streak caved and admitted that shoes were a necessary evil. With a begrudging snort, Zeara turned and made her way through the living room and into the hallway that led to the front door. Muttering curse words, she knelt and dug out a ratty pair of tennis shoes from under the shoe bench. She didn’t wear them often, but they were great when she needed to slip on a pair of shoes fast. Right now she didn’t feel like dealing with the laces on her ankle boots.
The doorbell rang just as she was tugging her last shoe on, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. She stared at the door warily, surprise freezing her in place. Zeara hadn’t been expecting any company, and people didn’t just happen to “drop by for a visit” at midnight. Whoever was on the other side of that door either had a good reason, one that she probably didn’t want to hear, or would wish they had once she finished tearing them apart.
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Thanks for stopping by! ~ D. F. Krieger