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“Hey, Jane, it’s Tess,” I said. “Do you know where I sign up for this vampire cooking contest?”
—
My approach to the contest entries was simple. I wanted to make something that reminded the judges of their human days—assuming they remembered them—but still appealed to their vampire palates. Clearly, all of the ingredients had to be liquid. I didn’t even want to risk purees after what Jane had told me about the French cookbook.
I tried to stay with familiar flavors, nothing too exotic. Hell, I even made a very thin marinara from tomato juice, but I needed some feedback before I decided which entry was the best. I tried tasting a few of my samples, but the weird metallic aftertaste of the Faux Type O overrode any other flavors.
This brought my favorite vampires, Jane, Gabriel, Andrea, and Dick, to the recently cleaned bar in the Howlin’ Hank’s building. (I was really going to have to come up with a name for the place soon.) The family was more than willing to let me “play” in the space while the final sale paperwork was ironed out, as long as I paid cash. I was so confident in my ability to win the prize money that I’d agreed. I bought the building outright, saving just a few thousand for the renovations and new equipment.
The dining room was still pretty beat-up, but I’d done a thorough cleaning. I’d found and washed some shot glasses, then used them to set up a tasting session at the bar.
“Are you sure it’s safe to eat anything prepared here?” Gabriel asked, obviously trying to keep his tone in the “nonpanic” range as he eyed the defunct beer signs and broken chairs. “Did you say you only had the electricity turned back on this morning?”
“I didn’t cook this here,” I assured him. “I cooked it at home, but I didn’t want to stir up my cranky roommate by inviting a bunch of people there. I thought this would be more fun.”
“She clearly has Jane’s idea of fun,” Dick muttered to Gabriel.
“So, when are you going to start work on this place?” Jane asked, elbowing Dick as I poured shot glasses full of a warm, deep-red concoction.
“I’m not sure. I have to find a contractor who’s willing to work with my budget.”
“Why don’t you talk to Sam?” Andrea asked as I sprinkled a tiny bit of rosemary oil over each shot.
“Because I don’t want my lower lip nailed to the bar at some point during the construction process?” I asked. “I mean, I’ve done things to him that the Geneva Convention would frown upon. I don’t think he’s going to give me a fair and accurate estimate, Andrea.”
“I might know someone,” Dick said before the other three cut him off with a chorus of “NO!” Dick huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine.”
“Jolene will help you find someone. If she doesn’t have a cousin who will do it for you, she has a cousin who knows someone who will do it for you,” Jane assured me, lifting a shot glass and sniffing. “So, what do we have here?”
I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and did a small curtsy behind the bar. “OK, this is a red-wine reduction with shallots—well, shallot juice—and a few other goodies, and, of course, Faux Type O. It’s basically the go-to sauce for any chef auditioning for a job.”
The vampires sniffed the glasses and then, giving one another subtly wary looks, knocked back the shots.
“So, what do you think?” I said, bouncing up and down on my heels. “Should I stick with this one as the contest entry, or do you want to taste more? Because I’m pretty sure this is the best selection.”
They stared at me, eyes unnaturally wide. That’s when I noticed that they weren’t smiling. Most people smiled when they were eating my food.
Dick swallowed heavily, grimacing. “Taste more?”
“This is the best one?” Jane said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.
My eyes flicked to each vampire’s face and their expressions of strained, polite discomfort. They hated it.
A cold flush of shock and panic skittered down my spine. My brain kept screaming, Impossible! I didn’t make bad food. Even when I made blue-box macaroni and cheese, I did it with flair. And this was my red-wine reduction. Everybody loved my red-wine reduction, even Chef Gamling.
I’d tasted this batch myself just before adding the blood. It was the perfect mix of sophistication and Southern comfort. Except it wasn’t, because Dick seemed to be trying to scrape his tongue with a napkin without being obvious about it.
“Does synthetic blood curdle?” I reached for the shot glass and sniffed. It smelled fine to me, a little coppery under the peppery tang of the sauce, but fine.
Gabriel cleared his throat. “No, no, it’s fine. It just a little…”
Dick murmured, “How can we put this delicately?”
Jane took my hands in hers, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “It tastes like old sandals and feta cheese.”
“That was delicately?” I deadpanned.
“For Jane, yes, it was,” Andrea informed me.
