Page 44 of Their Pretty Little Monster

Finally, we stop, and the doors open. I stumble out into a hallway where the walls and floor are all made of wooden paneling. Glittery stars dot the walls, casting the area in a gentle light.

Instantly, a comforting scent of freshly baked bread finds me, and I swear my mouth’s watering. My stomach growls in anticipation, with desperation.

“If you go into the kitchen straight down the hallway,” Howler explains. “We have a baker working into the night that might appeal to you.”

“Thank you.”

I approach the doorway, my nerves building, but the enticing smell of baked bread gives me the courage to knock. Before my knuckles touch the door, it swings open to reveal a brightly lit industrial kitchen. It’s a large room with counters running the length of two walls, and at the rear wall stands an oversized, oval-shaped wood-fire oven. The wave of heavenly baked smells draws me inside.

“Hello,” I say to the woman who’s just pulling out a tray of something from the oven with her bare hands. She’s stocky, with four arms, purple horns, and a pixie-like, cute face. Her smile instantly eases my discomfort.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I add. “But Howler suggested I might find something to eat in your kitchen.”

She sets the tray on the counter and turns to me, her completely white eyes blinking. “You’re a hungry girl, and you’ve come to the right place.” Her voice is soft, slightly high-pitched.

I nod. “Very much.”

When her smile widens, revealing fangs that slip out past her bottom lip, I don’t back away. There’s something warming about her presence, something that reassures me I’m safe here. She wipes the flour from her hands on the apron she wears over a mauve dress, her feet actual hooves. I try not to stare.

“Come, take a seat, and I’ll bring you a selection.” She waves for me to follow her through the kitchen, and I hurry past the random baskets lining the middle of the floor. Each holds different ingredients—rainbow-colored flours that could be made out of anything, really. One is filled with what appears like apples; that’s until I notice one is bruised and leaking with blood.

I cringe on the inside, worrying about what I’ll be served. In one basket, there are wriggling worms, but thicker and longer than the ones I’ve seen back home. My stomach turns at the sight. When I see a few of them diced up on the counter, I start questioning my decision.

“It’s not often I get anyone coming for a midnight meal anymore, not since Night Rush opened a few floors down,” she explains begrudgingly. “Seeing as they serve heavily fried food and drinks, most go there now.”

“I prefer the idea of something quieter,” I reply as she leads me into a long room with arched seating areas. Midnight blue walls glow under lantern-style lights hanging everywhere. Red tablecloths cover the two rows of tables with a narrow path down the middle. Right at the end is an oversized semicircle booth and table, but I take a seat at the closest table.

“I won’t be long,” she explains, crossing the room to the kitchen.

“Thank you,” I call out after her. “Nothing fancy, please. Like, I’m not into worms.”

She laughs, and I’m left alone in this gorgeous room. Before long, she emerges with a large wooden tray she holds with all four hands and places it down in front of me.

My eyes widen at the selection of various bread rolls, all different colors, along with a bowl filled with a blue kind of paste and a cup of something steaming.

She sits across from me, and I smile.

“This looks and smells divine. Thank you.”

“Enjoy. Everything here I’ve made. The tea is from a special herb that we grow on board, and each bread has a different center. Nothing with worms, I promise.” Grinning, she reaches for one of the buns, rips it in half, tips part of it into the blue paste, then takes a bite.

I salivate, watching her, and select a purple bun. Tearing it, I take a small nibble only to find it’s sweet, and there’s a honeyed middle that has the consistency of mashed beans.

“Oh, this is heavenly.” I take a large bite, unable to get enough.

“Try the butter. It comes from a special butterfly larva that, when cooked and whipped, turns out creamy.”

I swallow the mouthful, staring at the larva butter, and I feel compelled to at least taste it.

I lightly scrape the corner of my bread into the butter that’s soft on my tongue, instantly reminding me of the flavor of popcorn.

“Wow!”

I might have just found my favorite new food. Look at me, eating lizards and insect larvae.

Finishing the first roll in no time, I reach for a yellow one.

“I might be coming here to eat from now on.”

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