Chapter 14: The Kitchen and the Blood (Part 2)
She stopped. Nicco watched her with one eyebrow slightly raised.
“Miss Craven.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t eat.”
Emma blinked.
“What do you mean, you don’t eat? Everyone eats. Even people who claim they don’t eventually give in to a piece of bread.”
“I don’t eat,” he repeated, his voice even drier, almost comical in its simplicity. “Never. I don’t feel hunger. I don’t digest food. I don’t… participate in that particular human activity.”
Emma stood frozen, the knife forgotten on the cutting board. Her brain struggled to process the information.
“You… don’t eat. Anything. Ever.”
“Correct.”
“Not even chocolate?”
“Especially not chocolate.”
“Not even warm bread with butter?”
“Nor that.”
“Not even soup on a rainy day?”
Nicco almost, almost smiled.
“Miss Craven, I don’t consume solid or liquid food the way humans do. I have… other needs. But food, like the meal you’re preparing with such enthusiasm, hasn’t been part of my routine for a very long time.”
Emma felt the blood rush to her face, then drain away just as quickly. The kitchen seemed to spin slightly. She braced both hands against the edge of the wooden island.
“Other needs,” she repeated, her voice coming out thinner. “Like…”
Nicco watched her attentively. He seemed to be assessing how far she would take her line of reasoning.
“Like what most people would rather not discuss while preparing a stew.”
Emma swallowed hard. The image that formed in her mind was immediate, dramatic, and completely exaggerated. Blood. Fangs. Night. Suddenly, the entire mansion made horrifying and ridiculous sense at the same time.
She felt her knees weaken.
“I… I need to sit down.”
Nicco moved faster than she expected. He pulled out a chair and politely gestured for her to sit. Emma obeyed, her face now pale.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice still dry, but with a hint of something that might have been concern.
“I’m processing. You don’t eat. You have ‘other needs.’ The house is dark. The curtains are never opened. You look about thirty-five, and you own a mansion that’s at least two hundred years old. I…” She let out a short, hysterical laugh. “I nearly fainted because of a stew.”
Nicco remained standing, watching her.
“You’re laughing.”
“I am. Because the alternative is screaming. And screaming violates the noise rule. So I laugh.” Emma covered her face with her hands for a second, then lowered them, still laughing at herself. “Sorry. It’s just… I spent all day yesterday coming up with theories about you being a vampire, and now you basically confirm it, and I nearly pass out over the pot. It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.”
Nicco tilted his head.
“You came up with theories about me being a vampire.”
“Several. The most elaborate one involved the locked cabinet being a storage space for… well. You get the idea.”
He fell silent for a moment. Then he pulled out the other chair and sat down on the opposite side of the island, keeping his distance.
“And now that your theory has been… partially confirmed? What do you intend to do?”
Emma took a deep breath. The smell of the stew was still rising from the pot. Her heart was beating fast, but her nervous laughter had helped ease the worst of the shock.
“I intend to… finish cooking. Because I’m hungry. And because someone in this house needs to eat real food. Then I intend to ask questions. Lots of questions. But politely. And without screaming.”
Nicco nodded slowly.
“Fair enough. Ask away.”
Emma looked at him, still seated, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“You really are… a vampire.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a hundred and fifty years old.”
“Approximately.”
“And you don’t eat human food because…”
“Because my body can’t process it. And because I stopped deriving any pleasure from it a long time ago.”
“And the blood…”
Nicco raised a hand, interrupting her with dry gentleness.
“It’s a necessity. Controlled. Discreet. And it doesn’t involve the people who work in this house. Never.”
Emma processed that information. Then she nodded, more to herself than to him.