“The Sons of Adonai,” Priscilla said grimly, glaring daggers at the oncoming crowd.
The Sons of Adonai were a fundamentalist religious group. They were like the ugly lovechild of Jehovah’s Witnesses and the Amish. They were like the latter in that they largely rejected technology, with the exception of automobiles and some things that were too essential to life to get along without. And they were like the former in that they were extremely annoying when they showed up on your doorstep.
“What are they doing here?” Anna said, wiping the sweat from her brow with the handkerchief Priscilla had loaned her.
“They’re probably here for Dean and me,” she muttered. “They’re not fond of vampires.”
The Sons of Adonai began to speak, and by now Priscilla knew the scripture they quoted from memory. It was a bastardized version of the King James Bible, as interpreted and translated by a madman.
“And he spake unto them, do not allow any unclean creature to slither, to fly, or to walk on this Earth. It is an abomination to the Lord,” several voices intoned at once.
“They’re probably here for the snakes and bats too,” Dean muttered, speaking up for the first time since they’d set up on the courthouse lawn. Priscilla raised an eyebrow at him. He shrugged in response. “There was a chapter in my hometown. They took my corn snake and killed it.”
“I’m sorry,” Priscilla said.
He shrugged again and buried his face behind the comic book once more. Priscilla continued to stare at him for a few minutes longer. It was the most he’d revealed to her about his life before the change. He was tightlipped about the circumstances under which he’d become a vampire, and always retreated to his room when she tried to press for details about his family.
The crowd drew closer to the courthouse, and Priscilla finally understood why they were walking so slowly. The Sons of Adonai had linked arm in arm so that it would be impossible for anyone to pass them. It looked like an absurd game of Red Rover, though Priscilla suspected the Sons would not take kindly to someone trying to break their line.
The assembled crowd stirred nervously. The tourists who’d decided to pay for entry looked a little confused, unsure if this was a part of the show or not. Bellmare’s locals, however, knew better. Their expressions ran the gamut from frightened to angry. She wasn’t the only one in town to have had unpleasant encounters with the Sons. Hers just happened more frequently than most.
Matilda reappeared at Priscilla’s side, as if the sight of the approaching men had drawn her there magnetically. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand and her voice came out muffled.
“Oh no,” she groaned, in almost the same tone as Anna had. It was nice to know that Priscilla wasn’t the only one reacting badly to the new arrivals. “What can we do? They’re going to ruin everything!”
“Call your father, Anna,” Priscilla said. “Tell him there’s been a disturbance at the courthouse and that the Sons of Adonai are about to trespass on private property.”
Anna nodded and bent, retrieving her cell phone from the small purse she’d brought with her.
Matilda let out a short whimper. “We can’t stop them, Priscilla,” she said. “They always know how to get around the law. They’ll say they have a right to protest.”
It was true. The Sons were well-known for their ability to worm out of difficult legal situations. She could count on one hand the times that a member of the Sons had been caught in the act of breaking the law and actually served a jail sentence for it.
“They have the right to peaceably protest,” Priscilla said. “And they can only do it from where they are. If they set foot on this lawn, they’re in violation. You have the permits for this event, don’t you? You rented it out for this purpose?”
Matilda’s head bobbed nervously in agreement. “Yes, of course. I didn’t want it clashing with any ghost tours. That would be a mess.”
Priscilla put a hand on Matilda’s elbow and turned her to face her. “Then breathe, Matilda. The law is on your side.”
Matilda’s breathing steadied after a minute or two. Priscilla, however, remained on edge and wary. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to be that easy to rid themselves of the Sons.
The group stopped a few yards away from the steps that led up into the lawn, and Priscilla had the chance to study the men up close for the first time. They reminded her unpleasantly of her childhood in the Plymouth colony. The men wore starched white shirts with long sleeves, despite the heat. Combined with the similarly colored trousers and gray suspenders, they must be about ready to have heat stroke. It was hard to tell if they were flushed, though, because each of them sported an almost identical style of beard. Some of the young men had less facial hair, but only because they’d just recently become old enough to grow any. The longest beard in the bunch belonged to a man she knew only as Absalom Nicholson.
Priscilla knew Absalom better than she’d have liked to. He showed up every night in front of her shop, stood on the sidewalk, and encouraged her clientele to go elsewhere. He was yet another reason she’d had no choice but to take this job. The day-to-day stream of customers she relied upon had been dwindling as cowed tourists took their business elsewhere.
As she watched, Absalom broke away from the group and began to ascend the stairs. Matilda’s heartrate shot up a few notches beside her, and a sudden hush fell over the assembled crowd as he approached.
“Y-you’re not welcome here,” Matilda stammered. Priscilla appreciated her courage to speak to a man that was nearly twice her size, and easily double her girth, all of it made up in muscle.
Absalom reached for his back pocket and Priscilla instinctively stepped away from the table and put herself between Matilda and the hulking man. If he was drawing a weapon, she was more likely to survive a gunshot wound or stabbing than Matilda. After all, she could heal if her heart or brain weren’t destroyed. All it took to kill soft, kind, old Matilda Reid was a nicked artery.
“I’m a paying customer,” he said in a gravelly voice. He finally withdrew his hand to reveal a wad of small bills. Priscilla didn’t relax.
“We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone,” Priscilla said coolly. “You’re not wanted here. I suggest you and the rest of your flock leave before the cops arrive, Mr. Absalom.”
He pretended like she hadn’t spoken. “I want the human girl to serve me,” he said. “I won’t eat anything touched by unclean hands.”
“Not gonna happen, buddy,” Anna growled. “Get lost.”
Absalom stepped closer to Priscilla, and she fought the urge to flinch away from him. His eyes swept over her with almost clinically. His eyes lingered for an uncomfortable stretch on her chest, and for the first time since she’d set up, she wished she’d kept her blouse buttoned up to her neck. It wasn’t as if she had a lot to show, but what she did have was on display.
“See anything you like?” she quipped, hoping that the comment would make him turn away from her in disgust.
“Your shell doesn’t fool me,” he said. “You’re just a soulless husk, inhabited by the devil now, Priscilla Pratt. Whoever you were before died and went to hell the moment you let a bloodsucker taint you.”
That wasn’t an uncommon assumption with some of the more radical religious groups in the United States, unfortunately, but hearing it from this man’s mouth just pissed her off. Priscilla pushed Absalom and he staggered back a few steps, surprised by her strength. She couldn’t bench press a car, but she could act as a jack for one in an emergency. Knocking three hundred pounds of muscle off balance was child’s play.
“I told you to go,” she said quietly. Police sirens sounded in the distance and a small, satisfied smile curled her lips. “If you don’t, the authorities will forcibly remove you. I’m sure you don’t want that in the press, do you Absalom?”
“Godless heathen,” he hissed, face contorting in sudden rage. “Who are you to threaten me?”
“That’s not a threat. Get off this lawn before I
throw you off. That’s a threat.”
Absalom turned his head suddenly and spit in the direction of her booth. The globule missed the containers of fruit and the melting pot full of chocolate and landed on her griddle. It sizzled on contact and evaporated. Despite no harm really being done to her food, Priscilla was furious. Her lips pulled back away from her teeth in a half snarl and she took another step forward.
Matilda shoved past her and put her small body between the two of them. “No, Priscilla,” she urged. “Don’t. He’s not worth that.”
Absalom, on the other hand, grinned. “There’s the monster. You see her for what she is, do you not?” he asked the crowd at large. Priscilla could feel all eyes on her back, and tried to slowly relax her bunched muscles. She couldn’t go for this man’s throat, no matter how tempting it was.
Another, smaller hand touched her back and she jumped. When she craned her neck to look around, she found Dean by her side. When had he gotten up? She must have been angrier than she thought, to block out any sound of his approach.
“Forget it,” he muttered. “Don’t let him get a rise out of you. He’s just a bully. You’re giving him the attention he wants. How do you think this ends? Even if you do take a chunk out of him, it’s you who ends up in jail. It’s your business affected. Don’t give him that.”
It was strange that Dean’s voice cut through the haze of anger in a way that Matilda’s hadn’t. Maybe it was because she was still irritated with the biddies on the committee that Matilda oversaw. Maybe it was the shock of hearing more than ten consecutive words from the boy.
Priscilla gazed down for a second into his cool gray eyes. His long face was solemn. She’d thought he looked even younger than sixteen when she’d met him. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Finally, after repeating his points to herself, she relaxed.
Two squad cars pulled around the corner and the loud wail and bright blue and red lights made her flinch. As a nocturnal predator, her body took in more light than the average human eye. The spinning neon lights were like a stab to the retina.
The look of triumph didn’t fade away as Absalom turned away from her. He flicked a dollar bill in her direction. It floated pathetically to the ground.
“You didn’t pay for anything,” Priscilla said dully.
“Don’t worry, I got what I wanted.”
Chocolate & Strawberry Crepes Recipe
I had the pleasure of being able to indulge in crepes twice before I became a vampire. In France, crepes were traditionally served on the second day of February as a part of Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary. My sire was staunchly Catholic, and I think he may have been nostalgic for the old days. Or perhaps he was merely curious as to what he’d been missing. Those first crepes were simple, filled with sugar and the berries I harvested from the woods around our home. I hope you enjoy the more elaborate confection I’ve compiled here for your enjoyment.
—Priscilla Pratt
Ingredients
1 cup flour
3 eggs
2/3 cup milk
2/3 cup water
2 tbsp butter (melted)
2 cups baking chocolate (melted)
3 cups strawberries (sliced or diced—your preference)
Directions
Combine the first five ingredients in a large bowl until well blended. Refrigerate for an hour.
After the batter has chilled, pour about 2 tablespoons of batter in a frying pan (make sure to use nonstick spray). Cook for 1 minute, then flip and cook for another minute. Continue with this until you have used all of the batter.
Use a spoon to spread the melted chocolate in the center of each crepe and layer the desired amount of strawberries on top. Gently fold the crepes. Drizzle with any remaining chocolate and serve!
Chapter Two
The rest of the evening was nerve-wracking. After the police arrived, the Sons of Adonai backed away to a reasonable distance and picketed the event from a nearby sidewalk. Jack Riggs, Bert Holder, Jonathan Darby, and Miles Allen—some of the senior staff members at Bellmare PD—stood as silent sentinels, keeping the Sons from moving forward to disrupt the event again.
Despite that, the event only lasted another hour and a half. The overbearing presence of the Sons put a damper on the otherwise cheerful event and Matilda called the event off when they hit ten o’ clock.
“I’m sorry,” Priscilla muttered to the elderly woman as everyone began to file back to their cars. “This is my fault. Perhaps you should go with another caterer next time. Olivia Baker has excellent rates—”
“Oh, don’t be ludicrous,” Matilda said, waving her hand in dismissal. “They’d have come whether you were here or not. Fussbudgets, all of them. Don’t worry your pretty head about it, dear. We’ll reschedule. Maybe we’ll host it in Blackthorn Field next time. I know they’re not supposed to step foot on land that’s been consecrated to a heathen god.”
“I doubt it is,” Priscilla said.
Matilda winked at her. “Oh, I know. But they don’t need to know that. I’ll send a rumor through the grapevine.”
Priscilla smiled thinly. “Do you have a dish in mind for that?”
“Sure do,” she said brightly. “How do you feel about coconuts?”
Matilda talked animatedly as Priscilla disassembled the stand, unplugged the power strip and extension cord that had allowed her to run the griddle and melting pot, and stowed the remaining ingredients inside the cooler that Anna had brought.
It was almost 11:00 when she was completely through, and everyone but herself, Anna, Dean, and Matilda had cleared out. On a whim, she pulled the kindly woman in for a hug.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”
Matilda’s eyes crinkled as she smiled. So many humans dreaded the signs of age as time painted them onto their bodies. But Priscilla personally thought there were few things more beautiful than smile lines.
“Don’t mention it, dear.”
Anna walked Matilda to her car, parked on the other side of the square, as she and Dean gathered up the cooler and table. He didn’t say a word to her and barely glanced up as they made their way across the empty street to Priscilla’s bakery, Fangs in Fondant.
To her surprise and frustration, she found that Maddison had flipped the sign on her door to closed. What on earth had possessed her to do that? There were still several good hours left in the evening, and a crowd of hungry tokers would roll in around this time every evening, without fail. If Maddison had been drawn away by an emergency, she ought to have alerted someone. Priscilla had a few people she could call if Maddison couldn’t make her shift. The lights were still on, which wasn’t right. If the shop was closed, Maddison ought to have turned off the lights in the lobby.
“What now?” she grumbled as she propped the table up against the storefront. She tried the door and found it unlocked. Priscilla propped the door open and grabbed the plastic table once more, stepping through in front of Dean.
Maddison wasn’t at her post behind the counter. Instead, she was perched nervously on one of the handle-back chairs that Priscilla had placed around the round tables in her bakery. Seated across from her was a man who set alarm bells ringing in Priscilla’s head.
He looked like a young Humphrey Bogart, if the actor hadn’t slept or eaten in a month. He was thin, and he’d probably be tall if he stood, judging by how long his legs were, even curled beneath the table. He had a chiseled mouth, a strong jawline, and piercing brown eyes. His nose was long and aquiline, and he seemed to be looking down it as he gazed at her. She wasn’t sure how he did it, since he was the one sitting, but he somehow managed. He wore a long black trench coat that brushed her tile floor.
Sometimes it was hard to tell a human from a non-human. Vampires like Maddison, who had auburn hair and once sported freckles, had complexions so pale that they passed easily for humans. This man, however, couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. He was wan, with hollow cheeks, and perpetual dark
circles beneath his eyes. He was a vampire; Priscilla was certain of it.
“I’m sorry,” Maddison whispered. She’d gotten even paler than usual, which was impressive for a redhead. “He said I had to close up.”
“Under whose authority?” she asked, proud when she managed to keep her voice level and polite.
The man pushed to his feet and rummaged in his coat pocket. He pulled out a badge with a very official-looking crest emblazoned on it. Priscilla recognized it at once, and her heart sank. Just when she’d thought this day couldn’t get any worse, it had.
“My name is Gabriel Winthrop, and I’ve been sent by Parliament.” He gestured toward the table with a long-fingered hand.
“Sit down, Miss Pratt. We have a lot to discuss.”
“State your name for the record,” Gabriel said, clicking his pen. It hovered a few inches over an official form. Priscilla wasn’t sure when the vampire governing body had started keeping files, but she didn’t like the thought of being a part of them. This whole thing was reminding her of almost every case she’d investigated with Arthur. She supposed police procedure had to have some similarities, regardless of species.
“Priscilla Pratt,” she said.
“Is that official, or an alias you’ve adopted?” he asked.
“It’s my Christian name,” she said with a hint of irony. “I resumed it twenty years ago, when vampires were made public.”
“Your age?”
“Three hundred and fifty-four, if you exclude the human years. I was turned in 1666.”
The pen scratched across the pen. “A Yank through and through then,” he muttered, and his crisp British accent became even more pronounced.
“Might I ask what you’re investigating me for?” she asked, an edge of impatience in her voice. He’d been playing twenty-one questions with Maddison for the last fifteen minutes, and had now finally reached her. Priscilla had been forced to turn away the faithful crowd of college-aged kids when they’d shown up on her doorstep. It was more than a little irritating.
Holy Crepes Page 2