Page 27 of Blood and Bells

My bottom lip quivers. “The catering?”

Nick nods slowly. “But don’t worry.”

That’s easy for him to say.

“We’ve put Crinkshaw on it.” Nick crosses his arms and leans against one of the posts of my bed. “He’s roped in a couple of the other vampires and they’re cooking in batches. He’s turned the kitchens into a culinary production line.”

“What is a Crinkshaw?”

“A who. Not an it. He’s the five-hundred-year-old ghoul who happens to be the coven’s steward. He’s also an exceptional cook.”

My mouth forms a small but perfect circle, and I’m lost for words.

Nick just grins and I swear his chest puffs out a little as he watches me shift in the bed. “Well, I’ll let you get up. There are some clean clothes in the bathroom. Just catch up with me when you’re ready. Head down the stairs and then towards the back. We’ll be in the central kitchen.”

“Central?” I ask. “How many kitchens do you have?”

“I dunno. Six?”

He leaves and I edge my way out of bed, easing my weight onto my injured leg. It’s just a sprain, but I doubt I’d have made it home without considerable difficulty and as much as it pains me to admit it, Nick did me more than one favor last night.

I wash and dress, surprised that the bathroom’s stocked with more than enough toiletries to keep even the fussiest girl happy. What’s even worse is that the clothes fit perfectly, almost like the vampire knew my exact size and had them bought for me. I cast away the awkward thought that he arranged this just for me and drift out of the room, keen to explore the mansion he calls home.

And it is quite a mansion.

The hallways are a riot of Christmas, so lavish it’s hard to tell whether the decorations or the paintings they’re covering are more impressive. Nick wasn’t kidding about this ‘Crinkshaw’ going all out. Every banister is wrapped in garlands and twinkling lights. Wreaths hang from every door, their ribbons tied in perfect bows. Even the chandeliers have been decked with ornaments dangling from the crystal.

It’s like Christmas exploded and then tidied up after itself.

Downstairs, the ostentation only escalates. An actual Degas hangs on the wall. I’m almost certain there’s a Rodin on a marble plinth by the doorway. Even the Dowager Countess would pause at the threshold, purse her lips, and say, very softly, that this is ‘a bit much.’

I find the kitchen around the back of the winding staircase, just as Nick said. Broad double doors open into a room large and well-equipped enough to host cooking shows. A chalkboard by the pantry reads Kitchen Rules: Be Kind. Ask before borrowing spices. Label your blood bags and your biscotti.

Nick is sitting at an island the size of my entire living room. He waves and smiles awkwardly, showing me a grin I haven’t seen before. His hands wring when he walks over, and he looks strangely unsure of himself as he hands me another hot drink.

“You know,” he says, “if you’re impressed now, wait until you see the blood fountain. We dyed it green for the season. Very festive.”

I choke on my hazelnut latte. “You’re joking?”

“Am I?”

His smile widens, and I can’t tell if he’s serious or just messing with me.

A side door swings open to reveal a gentle burble of chocolate tinted with matcha. Tiny gingerbread men skate the rim on toothpick skates. A placard reads: Not Blood. Please stop asking.

Before I can say anything, he takes me by the elbow and guides me to another doorway at the far end of the kitchen. We enter a large dining room where two people are sitting at an elaborately set table. One is a tall, attractive, broad-shouldered redhead who radiates a kind of quiet menace that makes me instantly uneasy.

The other is an actual zombie, and I scream.

“What is that!?”

“Holly,” Nick says, gesturing to them, “meet Crinkshaw and Ronan. Crinkshaw is the coven’s steward and my...assistant. Ronan handles security.”

It’s impolite to stare, but I can’t stop myself from looking at a very real zombie. Crinkshaw’s face is a hollow, sunken skull with just enough skin stretched over it to be unsettling. He grumbles something that sounds like a curse muttered under his breath, while Ronan gives me a polite nod that still feels intimidating.

“Uh, hi,” I say, clutching my mug a little tighter.

This is somehow worse than the severed head in the forest.