Chapter 15: The Kitchen and the Blood (Part 3)
“Right. Okay. I… I can deal with this. I think. As long as you keep not eating me. Metaphorically and literally.”
This time, the corner of Nicco’s mouth lifted into a genuine smile.
“I can guarantee both.”
The silence that followed was strange, but not exactly uncomfortable. Emma stood up, still trembling a little, and returned to the pot. She stirred the stew with the wooden spoon, tasted it, and added a little more salt.
“Do you mind if I eat in front of you? Because I’m genuinely hungry. And now that I know you won’t be joining me, it almost seems rude not to offer.”
“I don’t mind. Eat.”
Emma served herself a generous portion, sat down again, and began eating. The stew was good. Surprisingly good. She ate in silence for a few minutes while Nicco simply watched her, his elbows resting on the table, his expression more relaxed than she had seen it before.
“You know,” she said between spoonfuls, “yesterday I broke a three-hundred-year-old vase, and today I discover that my boss is a hundred-and-fifty-year-old vampire. I think my list of ‘things I must not do if I want to leave this place with my sanity intact’ needs a complete overhaul.”
“And what would be the new top priority?”
“Not fainting in the kitchen. And not asking if you sparkle in the sunlight. Because I already know you don’t. The curtains make that pretty clear.”
Nicco let out a low sound that was almost a laugh.
“You adapt quickly.”
“I don’t have much choice. Either I adapt, or I spend the next five years having nervous breakdowns every time you appear without making a sound. And nervous breakdowns are noisy, too.”
She finished her meal, washed the plate in the sink, and dried her hands. Then she turned toward Nicco, who was still sitting there, watching her with that quiet attentiveness.
“May I ask one more question?”
“You may.”
“Why tell me now? You could have let me go on thinking you were just a rich, strange man with a severe allergy to food.”
Nicco took a second to answer.
“Because you were already close to figuring it out on your own. And because elaborate lies are too much work. I despise unnecessary work.”
Emma smiled sideways.
“That was almost a compliment to my intelligence.”
“It was a practical observation.”
“I’m going to take it as a compliment anyway.”
She untied the dish towel from around her waist and folded it carefully. The smell of the stew still lingered in the air, comforting and ordinary amid everything she had just learned.
“Mr. Ross?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for not letting me actually faint. And for explaining everything in such a… dry, humorous way. It helped.”
Nicco stood up and adjusted the sleeves of his black shirt.
“You’re welcome, Miss Craven. And… the stew really does smell acceptable. Even if I won’t be tasting it.”
He headed toward the door. Before leaving, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder.
“Mrs. Whitmore will be back tomorrow. Try not to reveal to her that you’ve discovered the obvious. She prefers to maintain appearances.”
“Understood. Vampire secrets locked away under seven locks. Or seven curtains.”
Nicco left.
Emma remained alone in the kitchen, her heart still beating a little faster than usual, but now with a genuine smile on her face. She looked at the nearly empty pot and murmured to herself:
“Stew for one. Mental survival report: nearly fainted, laughed at myself, and discovered that my boss really doesn’t eat. Productive day.”
Then she cleaned the kitchen with the kind of care Mrs. Whitmore would have approved of, stored the leftover stew in the refrigerator for herself the next day, and updated her mental list one final time that evening:
“Thirty-four: The boss is a vampire. Confirmed. Do not scream.
Thirty-five: He doesn’t eat human food. Stop offering.
Thirty-six: Nearly fainting is acceptable. Laughing about it afterward is mandatory.
Thirty-seven: Keep cooking. Someone in this house needs to keep humanity alive.
Thirty-eight: Do not ask about the locked cabinet. Not yet.
Thirty-nine: Survive the rest of the week without any more fainting spells.
Forty: Remember that five years is a very long time… but maybe it isn’t impossible.”
Emma turned off the kitchen light and headed upstairs toward her bedroom, the echo of her own footsteps sounding a little less lonely than it had the night before.
Somewhere on the second floor, Nicco Ross sat down at his desk again. He gazed at the empty space in front of him and allowed the same brief smile from the previous evening to return.
This time, however, it lasted a little longer.
Because the new housekeeper had nearly fainted, laughed at herself, and then offered stew to a vampire—and somehow, that made the mansion feel a little less silent. A little less ancient, and dangerously more interesting.