Blessed

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Aimee had begun quietly crying. “My cousin and I — she’s a food critic for Tejano Food Life, we hit the Sanguini’s launch party on Friday night. I only went because Travis was supposed to be working, and . . .”

  Oh, God. “You ordered the chilled baby squirrels.”

  So that was it. Aimee was dying right here in front of me. She had been all along. And unlike the hundreds of other victims, she knew it.

  “Brad may be a monster, but his honey cream sauce . . .” Aimee wiped her eyes, smearing the heavy black liner. “I practically licked the plate clean.”

  I’d felt too self-conscious to defrost the chicken legs in front of Clyde and Aimee, and then, just as the sophomores were leaving, the Moraleses had returned home.

  At midnight, in desperation, I jumped from Kieren’s window to the front yard, ran to Sanguini’s, let myself into the kitchen, and opened the fridge — empty.

  Sergio must’ve cleared it out earlier that day.

  Damn. No more blood wine. No more crutch.

  Fearful of what might happen if I came across a potential victim, I quickly returned to the Moraleses’ house. No way could I start The Banana without waking up Meara, but after dawn, I would drive to the nearest twenty-four-hour grocery store.

  At 4:30 A.M., I paced nude on the white Berber carpet, my bare skin prickling in the darkness. My stomach clenched. My throat felt as if I’d swallowed sawdust.

  Just down the hall — one door, two — Meghan would be so defenseless. No.

  What about the dogs outside? At Kieren’s window, my fingernails extended, tap, tap, tapping the glass. Hide the bite in the fur, and who would see? I didn’t have to take it all. I could stop. Drink the mama German shepherd. Save the puppies. No.

  Escape. Quick, out the window, down the tree! Go night-crawling. Why had I come back to the house? How long could it take to find a homeless person? Might as well put them out of their misery. Why should Mitch have all the . . . No.

  I glanced at my backpack, remembering the two small bottles of holy water, tucked inside its zippered pockets. Morning would be better. It would. Heaven’s light shining high in the sky, even if it’d never shine for me.

  I could last a few hours. Try to rest. Yes, sleep would solve everything.

  In the upstairs bathroom, I grabbed a full bottle of NyQuil from the medicine cabinet and chugged it down. Then I shut myself in Kieren’s closet, a hand gripping the handle of each plastic jug of blessed water.

  A breath before sunrise, I sank my fangs, deep and eager, into my own thigh.

  I found Aimee in the sophomore hall. There was a KEEP AUSTIN BATTY bumper sticker displayed at an angle on her locker. “Hey, how’re you doing?”

  For so long, it had been just me and Kieren. I didn’t know how to act around a new friend, especially one facing this particular nightmare.

  “I didn’t mean to freak out on you yesterday,” she replied. “You’re under enough pressure, and I know you’re trying hard to fix everything so I don’t . . .”

  “I won’t give up,” I promised, trying to project confidence. “We’ll find a cure.”

  “Well,” Aimee said, “even if we don’t, maybe it’s not all bad. Look at you. You’re okay, aren’t you? You seem totally normal to me.”

  My thigh still smarted, though the puncture wounds had almost immediately scabbed over, and I’d learned better than to push my luck — or anyone else’s — again. Feeding on my own blood had sated my appetite, but I couldn’t get by that way indefinitely. “I won’t give up,” I said again.

  Later, after English let out, I handed in my essay on “The Lottery” and checked it off my to-do list in Frank.

  Mrs. Levy jotted today’s date on my paper. “What did you think of the story?”

  “Heinous,” I said. “Awful. Stupid. Ridiculous. Hated it.”

  She glanced up. “I sense a thesis statement.”

  “Some poor woman’s name is drawn, and so her friends and family —”

  “Even little Davy Hutchinson,” Mrs. Levy said.

  “Yes, her own child helps to stone her to death.” I reconsidered that. “Or at least someone in the chipper, folksy, yet psychotic mob offered him a few pebbles.”

  “It’s a harvest ritual,” Mrs. Levy reminded me.

  I snapped my planner book closed. “So what — they’re going to use her decomposing body as fertilizer?”

  “It’s tradition,” Mrs. Levy explained. “Their society is built —”

  “But Mrs. Adams says that some towns have already called it quits, and Mr. Adams says that the north village is talking about doing the same. Besides, it’s intrinsically wrong. Incredibly, obviously wrong.”

  “Perhaps it’s not so obvious to the villagers,” Mrs. Levy countered, playing with the wooden apple paperweight on her desk.

  “So, this innocent woman has to die just because it’s all they know? What a sucky, pointless ending! Why did Jackson write such a depressing story, anyway?”

  “But is it a pointless ending,” Mrs. Levy asked, leaning forward, “if it makes you feel, if it makes you think?”

  “Ask Tessie Hutchinson,” I replied.

  From the office laptop, I studied a live shot — transmitted via new security cameras — of the four finalists for Sanguini’s “vampire” chef position.

  “You’re looking at the most qualified,” Sergio said from across the manager’s desk, “and the least egomaniacal. Well, you know, by the chef standard.”

  Not a scary-looking bunch. But when I’d first met Brad, he’d dressed like a Bubbaville ’kicker. He’d tricked me into thinking he’d needed my help to make him over into a dapper and convincing pretend monster when he’d been a real one all along.

  It didn’t give me a lot of faith in my ability to judge character.

  “What about a private detective?” I asked. “Not for all the finalists. But to check out the new chef, you know, during his six-month probationary period.”

  “Six-month . . . ?” Sergio shook his head. “Listen, lamb chop, I’ve explained to all of them that, despite your age, you are ultimately the legal owner of the restaurant and that you grew up in the business. I also explained that this isn’t a hobby or a phase that you’re going through. But, Quincie, you’re still dealing with grown-up professionals here. You have to show some respect.”

  He was right. I knew he was right. But I didn’t like it.

  “I thought we agreed that Nora Woodworth doesn’t have the right vibe,” I said.

  The job included wooing the hearts and, to be candid, the libidos of the diners. Where most chefs stayed in the kitchen, ours made a grand entrance each night and led the crowd in a toast. I was looking for what I thought of as a swoon factor.

  “I mean, she’s adorable for her —”

  “Quincie.” Sergio flicked his graying ponytail over his shoulder. “There are laws against age discrimination.”

  “Fine.” I raised my burnt-orange sports bottle in surrender, appreciative of the fact that Sergio was too old-school to go over my head to the Moraleses. “I’m going to refresh my drink in the kitchen, and then you can send back the first one.”

  My skin felt tight, my temper short. Later, after Sergio went home, I’d defrost some meat from the freezer, start committing to animal blood.

  For the moment, though, the quick fix I’d had from drinking my own had worn off, and all I had to make due with was the plain old house Chianti.

  I ruled out the clean-cut candidate after he made a passing comment about his “baby face” because that’s an expression people had used to describe Uncle D.

  I ruled out the guy with the nose ring when he began waxing poetic about Sanguini’s “midcentury” brick building because Brad was an architecture geek.

  I ruled out the guy with the hard-to-pin-down accent because of his movie-star-white teeth. Dental hygiene was one thing, but I’d had enough of the dentally obsessed.

  Standing in the doorway of what really was his office, Se
rgio glanced at his watch. “You axed three candidates within forty-eight minutes. We have only one left, and I know you have qualms about Mrs. Woodworth.”

  Vaggio would’ve fallen hard for Nora. He had an eye for quality women, prioritized his stomach, and always said you couldn’t trust a skinny chef. Plus, they would’ve shared a complex and layered relationship with butter.

  “You’ve seen our menus?” I asked.

  Sanguini’s offered two, one for guests who self-identified as “prey” and one for guests who self-identified as “predator.”

  The prey menu celebrated vegetarian Italian staples — portobello mushroom pâté; mozzarella, gorgonzola, and parmesan ravioli in wild mushroom sauce; eggplant parmesan; and so forth.

  The predator menu catered to the most bloodthirsty of carnivores with such meaty dishes as veal tartare; breaded pig’s feet in Merlot and onion cream sauce with fettuccine Alfredo; blood and tongue sausages with new potatoes; rice pudding blood cakes; and of course the infamous chilled baby squirrels, simmered in orange brandy, bathed in honey cream sauce. Brad’s weapon of choice.

  “I don’t have the recipes, but the kitchen staff —”

  “Don’t you fret,” Nora said, “I can whip up anything edible from unagi to rhubarb pie. But . . .” She adjusted her rose-patterned shawl. “It’s not my place to quarrel with the judgment of your previous chef, this Bradley —”

  “Quarrel away,” I replied, making a note to turn down the air-conditioning.

  Nora folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll create menus of my own.”

  I wrote that down in Frank. “Of course the new chef would be welcome to bring his or her own style to Sanguini’s, so long as it meshed with the theme.” I’d practiced that line ahead of time. “But my staff is counting on our reopening on Friday night, and the freezer is stuffed with frozen squirrel —”

  “I work with fresh meat only,” Nora informed me. “If budget is an issue, young lady, I’ll be glad to make a financial contribution to the cause. As it happens, I left my last position with a generous severance package.”

  Oh. Well. I had no idea what to say to that. Hold it! Did she just “young lady” me? Oh, my God, she did! “But it can take weeks,” I argued, “months even, to develop a signature menu; the critics will be out for blood, and Friday . . .”

  Nora reached into her purse and slid two pieces of paper across my desk.

  “Scorpions?” I exclaimed. “They’re poisonous!”

  “I’ll take out the stingers,” Nora assured me.

  “What about the rattlesnake?”

  “Fang free. We’re just talking about the meat, though I’m contemplating the idea of using the rattles as garnish. As for the tiramisù, I kept that in play for the risk averse.”

  How considerate. Studying the proposed menus, I tuned her out for a moment. On the prey, I almost protested the garlic, but on second thought, it seemed only fair to give the hunted a fighting chance. On the predator, I couldn’t decide who the dove dish would upset more: left-wing peaceniks or right-wing devotees of Noah’s ark.

  “How ’bout I meet Sergio here tomorrow morning,” Nora went on, “and we’ll look forward to you joining us later for a tasting? Today I’ll settle for a tour —”

  “Whoa. Wait.” Had I agreed to hire her? I liked her. Sergio liked her. But Sanguini’s was dangerous. I was dangerous. Not to mention the God-only-knew-how-many employees nearing their pre-preternatural mood swings. And Bradley, who’s to say he wouldn’t mist in some night, demanding “his” kitchen back?

  Was Nora dangerous? Could she even fake dangerous? I didn’t think so, and I didn’t want anything awful to happen to her. She struck me as someone who’d led a calm, wholesome life.

  “I’m sure you’re an outstanding chef, and your proposed menus scream ‘Sanguini’s.’ But, um, this particular position involves more than cooking and running the kitchen. The chef is an attraction per se.”

  Nora reached for my sports bottle of Chianti and took off the top.

  “You see, it takes a certain persona, a certain edge . . .” Damn, Sergio had been right. If I didn’t learn when to shut my mouth, we’d get sued. “To lead our guests in the midnight toast and convey a . . . Excuse me, what are you doing?”

  Nora had taken a four-inch-long plastic vial of dark red liquid out of her large quilted purse and was unscrewing the cap. At the scent of blood, my gums contracted.

  “Pig juice,” she informed me, pouring a good two shots into my wine and swirling it around before handing back the sports bottle. “You’re looking parched, hon, and, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, that’s never a safety-first situation when dealing with eternals.”

  “Eternals?” I asked, reaching — despite myself — to drink.

  “Vampires,” she explained as if it were business as usual.

  As I toured Nora around the restaurant — she didn’t so much as blink at the boar heads or baby squirrels in the freezer — she explained that her previous employer had been undead (though she insisted on using the word eternal).

  “But why would a vampire need a personal chef?” I asked, carrying my bottle with me. “I can’t keep any solids down, and it’s been a total nightmare trying to pass —”

  “It takes practice to build up a tolerance,” Nora told me. “Start small — fruits, berries, Jell-O. They’re mostly liquid.”

  “Really?” When she nodded, I almost hugged her. Not being able to eat wasn’t just a social and logistical dilemma. I missed it.

  I’d been craving habanera-stuffed olives for days.

  Nora glanced at my sports bottle. “You’re already acquainted with the grape.”

  I blushed, busted. Something about her acknowledging what I was, being so apparently comfortable with it, made me feel more like my old self again.

  Nora added that she’d cooked regularly for a sizable household staff and her employer’s “bleeding stock,” whatever that meant. Apparently, it totaled out to more than a full restaurant seating, and for the most part, she’d pulled that off daily for years and without any kitchen help to speak of. Incredible.

  “As for this midnight-toast business,” Nora went on, opening the refrigerator to case it for future use. “I have no interest in it. But you should have received a résumé from a fellow named Freddy for the manager’s position. He’s a personal friend and a gentleman of some resources.” I was about to inform her that we’d already filled that job, when she added, “The role of vampire chef might . . . amuse him. It doesn’t have to be the actual chef handling the part, does it? I mean, wouldn’t any human chef be sweaty and frazzled from supervising the kitchen all night?”

  “I guess not,” I said, clutching Frank for support. “I mean, I guess so.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, splitting the real and pretend chef jobs. It occurred to me, too, that if Vaggio hadn’t been murdered, playing the part — tailored suit, formal cape, devastating cheekbones — would’ve been beyond him. Well, the cheekbones, anyway. He probably would’ve enjoyed the show.

  Maybe this Freddy could audition. If he worked out, Mama’s restaurant would be up and running, and I could devote my full attention to saving the infected.

  “Are you positive you want this gig?” I pressed Nora. “I understand that you’ve been a chef at a sizable private estate. You’ve done large-scale parties, catering, and other possibly creepy stuff.” I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know. “But restaurant work can be beastly, and Sanguini’s . . .”

  Nora held out her wrist to me. “Feel my pulse. Go ahead. It’s there.” When I hesitated, she added, “I’m not afraid.”

  I felt for the beat and, after a moment, found it, steady and strong. I appreciated that she trusted me, but on second thought, could I trust her? Or was Nora Woodworth too good to be true? Too comforting, too confident, too savvy about the supernatural?

  “I’ve got my own suppliers for the meat,” she declared, not missing a beat, “but I’ll need fresh produce.” Nora narrowed
her eyes. “Now, where’s the local farmer’s market, and what’re the going rates for bribes in this town?”

  It occurred to me during Econ that the tasting part of Nora’s scheduled tasting might be an issue. I remembered Bradley cooking at Sanguini’s stove, sampling dishes and spitting out the food. I recalled thinking how gross that was, but it hadn’t tipped me off that he was a vampire.

  Anyway, I could manage the mushroom soup, maybe the ice cream and sherbet, the olive oils, the pesto, the cognac cream. Forget the pâté. As a human being, I’d adored the vegetarian stuff, but duck-liver pâté? Yuck.

  I was intrigued, though, by the quail eggs, the lamb’s liver, less so the newt eyes.

  Maybe if I took teeny bites, spit the solids into a napkin . . .

  Forget it. I needed backup — stat.

  After Chem, I had the halls to myself. Everyone else was in class or at lunch. So I ducked into a girls’ bathroom and texted Clyde and Aimee, asking them to meet me after school to go to Sanguini’s. As soon as I sent the message, my phone vibrated.

  “Quincie Morris?”

  “Who’s this?” I demanded. Hardly anybody outside Sergio and the Moraleses had my cell number.

  “We’re seeking information on Henry Johnson, also known as Bradley Sanguini. Do you know his whereabouts?”

  My grip tightened. “No. Who are —?”

  The call died.

  I hit Detective Zaleski’s number on my speed dial, then filled him in on last week’s mystery calls at the restaurant and today’s on my cell. “It could’ve been the same guy. I don’t know. We don’t have caller ID at the restaurant.”

  “Be careful,” the detective warned me. “Any associates of Brad’s could be undead themselves, and this side of hell there’s no more unpredictable or depraved form of evil than a vampire.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, staring in the mirror at my own vaguely translucent reflection. “I keep hearing that.”