by Sable Sylvan
Mason told his bear to hush. It was just proof that Savina was a naturally seductive woman, a woman who could have any man she wanted to worship her. That meant that what Mace was feeling wasn’t special. It wasn’t that Savina was special to him. She couldn’t be. It wasn’t allowed. She was the one woman who had made it perfectly clear she didn’t want him.
Mason tried to distract himself by looking at the fruits. Even the common fruits looked better here at the Gobblin’ Market. It was easy to see why the last humans who had seen this market had mistaken it for a Goblin Market. The fruit looked like it must’ve been picked from an otherworldly realm and brought to this one by demons, even a taste of the fruit a sin. There were fruits that looked like they were plucked straight out of an orchard: shiny pink apples, round yellow quinces, lemons that made one’s mouth pucker just from looking at them, and bright Hesperidian oranges that looked like setting suns. There were cherries, each a twin or triplet, linked by the brown stems. There were round melons, as full and as pale as the full moon that was expected that night. There were raspberries, begging to give juicy kisses, and peaches with soft pink curves, offering their cheeks to be kissed.
Mason’s bear couldn’t be silenced. It roared back. If Savina wasn’t so special, why wasn’t Mace going to let other men hit on her? If Savina wasn’t the one, then why was Mason stopping her from being someone else’s mate? Was there something else about Savina that enticed Mason the same way that the juicy, glossy fruits being looked over by New Orleans shifter dandies? There was every kind of berry, from European mulberries that looked frosted with dew to cranberries that must’ve been grown in the wild swamps of Louisiana, as they looked too fresh to be from the Northeast. How they’d been harvested at this time of year was anyone’s guess. The shifters lusted over the fruit, but as their heads turned, they smelled not just the sweetness of the fruit but of the curvy lass being escorted by a man who looked more like her bodyguard than her boyfriend. Their appetites for fruit were replaced with cravings for something far juicier, sweeter, and more satisfying than a mere fruit picked from the vine or the bush or the swamp. The young woman they spotted looked divine, even in a baggy red hoodie draped over her body like a Rubenesque neo-Classical marble statue’s toga-like chiton. She’d look even better bathed in candlelight in one of the French Quarter’s ornate parlor rooms, or even in Spanish moss during some frenzied orgy.
These appetites were sensed by Mace. The only thing that scared him more than his own hunger for Savina was the hunger he knew lay in the hearts of other shifters, of other men. He knew all too well what power and connections these men must have, and in a sea of faces, it was as hard to pinpoint a given person as it was to pick out a certain piece of fruit from a pile once one had blinked their eye. If Mace blinked, if his hand slipped from Savina’s, who knew if he would see her again, find her again? Would she be swept away by some exotic Greek billionaire looking for a fated mate? Would she be captured by a pack of wolf shifters looking to share more than just a fruit salad after the market closed? Mace had climbed mountains, braved ocean depths, but losing Savina, well, that wasn’t a risk that Mace was willing to take. He tried to calm his nerves, take in the sights.
Savina was amazed at the glory of the market. She had never seen so many shifters in one place before. It was impossible to guess what a given person was because she didn’t get to spend much time looking at any given face. The only constant in all this was the feeling of Mason’s hand in hers, holding onto her tightly, as she took in the pageantry of the market. Nature’s full bounty was on display. Young shifters were selling what looked like crab apples from baskets they carried around the market. There were fruits that Mace whispered to Savina were dewberries, and of course, Savina could recognize spiky yellow fruits (with spiky green tops not unlike Mace’s formerly lime locks) as pineapples. There were all kinds of blackberries, including Marionberries from the PNW, and even apricots and strawberries, all perfectly ripe at the same time.
“How did you find this place?” asked Savina. She had stopped with Mason to eat mixed berries from a stall. He had bought them each a cup of berries and a cup of cream for them to sip as they ate the berries. The cream was cold and rich, the berries cleaned in a quick salt bath before they’d been handed to the pair. Savina had never had berries this good before. They burst on her tongue and unleashed their juices, which were sinfully sweet and fruity. The fruit was just the perfect level of ripeness.
“I’m a Scoville, after all,” said Mason. “My family had connections to the spice world since before the Silk Road had been traveled by its first merchant. One such connection is to the Rosetti family. They’ve had a partnership with my family for countless generations, and after recent events, they owed us…a favor.”
“A favor?” asked Savina.
“Ask your sister, Addison, about it sometime,” said Mason. “But I digress. This market is run by someone connected to the Rosetti family. That’s how I received information about how to visit it. It is only held on the afternoon of a full moon, and as dawn rises, it will disappear as quickly as it came. We were lucky that it was in New Orleans this month.”
“And there’s something here you think we should put in the sauce?” asked Savina.
“If we can’t find it here, we can’t find it anywhere,” said Mason. Mason and Savina kept walking through the less crowded part of the market until they reached the stairs and went up to the second floor of the market.
The plants that bore these fruits were on display on the second floor, as saplings, cuttings, and seeds. There were masses of grapes, heavy and purple, with their powdery skin ready to burst, alongside wine made from those same grapes. There were pomegranates, like hard red coconuts, split open by vendors so that shifters could sample their crimson liquid. For a split second, Savina almost thought the red stains covering their hands were blood, but that thought passed as quickly as it had come. They’d moved on, past the Mediterranean dates and plums, past the Anjou pears and the green plum-like fruits that Mace told her were called ‘grønne-plommer’ in his home country, or ‘greengages.’ There were wild Old World berries: bilberries, currants, gooseberries, barberries. To Mace, these were signs of home. To Savina, they were small parts of a culinary tapestry representing a new world she had never visited before. There were citron fruits, and it was hard to imagine that something with their sourness could have been bred into the sweet orange of the modern era.
Finally, they reached the staircase to the third floor. On the third floor, there were shadowy tents, and less hustle and bustle, but the buyers here seemed older, more refined, more discerning.
Mace and Savina walked through the spice section, not checking out any of the piles of spices, nuts, and other dry goods that were on display. Mace was a man with a mission, and he walked them to a woman who was sitting in an old lawn chair, knitting the very blanket she was wearing on her lap. Next to her was a younger girl, who looked to be in her mid-teens.
“Hello,” said Mace. “I was told you might have what I’m looking for.”
“That depends on what you’re looking for, now, doesn’t it?” said the older woman, who continued knitting, not even looking up at Mace.
“I’m looking for a certain pepper,” said Mace.
“Are you, now?” said the older woman. She put her knitting down and looked up at Mace.
“Tell me the truth, and I will help you find what you seek,” said the woman.
Mace looked to Savina and then leaned down to whisper something in the woman’s ear. Savina couldn’t hear what Mace was saying. The old lady was nodding, so that had to be good.
Mace pulled away, and the old woman whispered something to the teenager. The youth went to their car, an SUV with the trunk popped, and rummaged before pulling out a basket of shiny red peppers which she passed to the older woman.
“Your savina,” said the old woman, passing the basket to the curvy Quincy sister, before looking back to Mace.
“It�
�s that simple?” asked Savina, holding the basket of peppers carefully.
“Well, not quite,” said the woman, pulling a phone and a card reader out from under the blanket.
Mace pulled out his black card and paid for the peppers.
“You can find anything, can’t you?” Savina asked Mace.
“Well, finding it is only half the battle,” said the old woman. “To find what you desire, you must first admit what it is you want. Only then can you find it.”
“I just want to win the hot sauce competition,” said Savina.
“No, no you don’t,” said the old woman, before she laughed heartily. “Every market, it’s the same. None of you can admit what you truly want, what your heart desires.”
“That’s all I want,” said Savina.
“Only when you can admit what you truly want can you take it,” said the old woman. “Although…you already have what you want, don’t you?”
“I’m more confused now than ever,” admitted Savina. “What?”
“My grandmother gets like that sometimes,” said the teenager. “Her knowing is stronger than ever.”
“Her…knowing?” asked Savina.
“Does she not know?” asked the teenager, looking to her grandmother.
“She does not,” said the grandmother. “You both have what you want. Now, go get what you want. Shoo!” The woman cackled as the two left her stall.
“What the heck was that about?” asked Savina.
“They’re dragon shifters,” said Mace.
“Dragon what now?” asked Savina. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nope,” said Mace. “It’s not a prank. Dragon shifters are real. Again, talk to your sister about it sometime.”
“So both of them are dragon shifters?” asked Savina.
“Yes,” said Mace. “Dragon shifters are different than other shifters in many ways. One such way is their ability to ‘know.’”
“To know?” asked Savina.
“Dragon shifters just…know things, sometimes,” said Mace. “Imagine being really good at guessing, or just randomly knowing things. That’s kind of what it’s like for them.”
“And what did they know that we don’t?” asked Savina.
“That’s for them to know, and us to find out, now isn’t it?” asked Mace. “Don’t let it get in your head. We got the savinas. Now, we just have to make the best dang hot sauce our town has ever seen…but first, we need to get something to eat.”
Mace led Savina back down the stairs. She carried the peppers while he navigated them through the crowd. After all, he was the one with the credit card, so he had to pay for things. The market was mysterious and seemed magical, but it was also modern, and yes, the vendors took credit cards. Mace bought a bushel of mangoes and some Marionberry plants. He got them some sandwiches to eat before they headed back to the French Quarter in one of the horse driven carriages, and from there, it was a quick trip back to their car, then back to the airport outside of town.
This time, on the helicopter ride back to Fallowedirt, Savina wasn’t interested in watching the landscape. She was too busy looking at Mace and asking him questions about his life, about shifters, about Norway, about dragons, about spices. There was only one thing she didn’t ask him, and that was the question of what he had told the older dragon shifter at the Gobblin’ Market, about what he wanted more than anything else in the world. Savina didn’t ask him that question because now, she wasn’t sure how she’d answer that question. She’d thought that this was all about winning the hot sauce competition, but apparently, Savina didn’t know what was in her own heart, and a stranger was able to tell what she truly desired more easily than she could herself. What had the dragon shifter seen, looking at Savina, that she hadn’t seen in herself?
Chapter Fifty
“Okay, let’s go over it from the top,” said Herb, rubbing his temples. Herb was sitting in his armchair in the parlor, with Alice next to him, shaking her head as she read her eReader, and across from him, on the couch, were Savina and Mason.
“We took a helicopter to New Orleans to buy peppers,” said Savina, folding her arms. “I don’t know how we can make this more crystal clear.”
“No sass,” said Alice, looking up from her romance novel before looking back down.
“You two leave the frikkin’ state, by frikkin’ helicopter, to get some frikkin’ peppers?” asked Herb. “I was worried sick about you two! Neither of you answered your phones.”
“I left my phone in the chopper,” admitted Savina. “I wasn’t exactly prepped for a day in New Orleans.”
“So this was your idea, Mason, wasn’t it?” asked Herb. “Was it his idea, Savina?”
Savina looked to Mason. She didn’t want to throw him under the bus. Just a few weeks ago, she would’ve gladly admitted it was all Mason’s idea. She didn’t want to lie to Herb, but she also didn’t want to tell the truth.
“Yup,” said Mason. “It was all my idea. I pretty much kidnapped her. After all, I needed someone to contact you two if things went south. Savina had no idea what I was gonna do. I told her we had the day off. It was my mistake.”
“Your ‘mistake’?” asked Herb, using his fingers to make quotation marks in the air. “Well, your ‘mistake’ equals having to mow the lawns yourself, by yourself, for the rest of the summer. Do I make myself crystal clear?”
“Yes, Herb,” said Mason.
“You know Grandpa would have my head mounted if he knew that you had managed to go for a joyride in yet another aircraft, right?” asked Herb.
“To be fair, it wasn’t a joyride,” said Savina.
“This sauce of yours better be fan-frikkin’-tastic,” said Herb. “It better be worth the punishment, Mason.”
“It will be,” promised Mason. “Oh, and Herb? I picked up stuff for everyone. The stuff’s still in the car. Can I get it out, or are you gonna make me toss the stuff out, too?”
“What’s done is done,” said Herb. “No use throwing the baby out with the bathwater.”
The four of them went downstairs to the garage. Mason opened the SUV’s trunk and pulled out the plants he’d bought Herb and Alice, a pair of Marionberry canes.
“You bought these for us?” asked Alice.
“Yeah, I know you two were thinking of growing some,” said Mason. “I know it’s late in the season, but hey, get a start on next year, right?” Mason pulled out a small covered basket of Marionberries and passed them to Herb.
Herb opened the basket and popped a berry into his mouth and chewed.
“These are some darn good Marionberries,” said Herb. “But they’re not good enough to get you off of lawn duty, Mason.”
Lawn duty only lasted a few days, because Mason learned that Herb hated the sound of a mower in the morning even more than he loved the taste of Marionberries. Technically, all Mason had done was steal two days of work from Herb, so he was stuck with extra shifts, including night shifts and a few weekend shifts, to make up for it.
The night they got back from Louisiana, Mace and Sav got to cooking. Now that they had the savina habaneros, Mason and Savina could get to brewing the best dang hot sauce in the state of frikkin’ Texas. Savina tried them with a classic hot sauce recipe of mustard, vinegar, and ground peppers, but it was just ‘hot’ and did need something special.
“I don’t know how the heck we’re going to come up with something special,” said Savina, eating a cube of mango. It had become a tradition for them to eat mangoes while brewing sauce.
“Neither do I,” admitted Mason. “If we can’t figure out a way to use these peppers, our trip will have been for nothing.” Mason put some of the sauce on his mangoes.
“You’re eating that with the hot sauce?” asked Savina, frowning. “Black pepper is one thing, but hot sauce?”
“Come on, try it,” said Mason. “It’s pretty good.”
Savina put some of the hot sauce on her mango and put a cube of mango into her mouth. The mangos were ri
pe but not too soft, still a bit sour. The tartness of the mango mixed with the savina habanero. The flavor of the peppers was fresh but hot, as they hadn’t dried or roasted the peppers in any way…but it worked with the mango.
Savina had a gulp of milk and then tried some more hot sauce with her mango.
“Slow down there, or else you’ll burn your mouth,” said Mason.
“Mason…maybe this is what’s been missing,” said Savina. “The mango goes well with the peppers.”
“We can’t very well make a sauce that only goes well with mangoes,” said Mason.
“That’s why we should put the mango in the sauce,” said Savina. “Juice, puree, something.”
“That’s just so crazy that it just might work,” said Mason. “Let’s get cooking.”
Savina helped juice, mash, and puree the mangoes while Mason worked on processing the peppers. Two hours later, they had something resembling a hot sauce. It was reddish orange, smelled like a forest fire in a mango orchard, and now, the only question was, could this sauce compete with the sauces the others were brewing up?
Mason took some leftover tri-tip steak out of the fridge and cubed it before reheating it in a pan. Then, he served the meat onto plates.
“Cayenne and Basil didn’t use a marinade with this,” explained Mason. “It’s just hot meat.”
Savina and Mason each took a spoonful of sauce and put it on their plates. They carried their plates upstairs, along with the sauce and their peppers, which they kept in their mini-fridge. They gently dipped the meat into the sauce and then put it in their mouths and chewed.
The heat hit Savina first, but it was met with a fruitiness that was juicy and made her mouth wetten, wanting more. It didn’t leave her mouth feeling dry at all. The sauce was hot. That was for certain. It was like liquid fire, but this competition wasn’t just a matter of making the hottest sauce. The sauce had to taste good, too, and this sauce didn’t taste good.
