Page 6 of Kept 3
“I need to eat, yes,” he muses, “but less than a human man. I usually have an evening meal as a matter of ritual and,” he pauses again, “I enjoy the cuisines of the sun; France, Italy, Spain. Perhaps because I can no longer walk under it myself.”
I’m struck by his honesty, and the beauty of his words, ‘cuisines of the sun,’ and file this away for future use. But there is something else he eats that detracts from any sentiment I may feel at his terminology.
“And blood? I know you kill at least once a week.”
He shrugs and ignores my question, posing one of his own.
“What do you think of the meal before you?”
I frown down at my plate.
“I know we spoke about my wide palette when I served you in the restaurant, but even for me, toad is a stretch,” I mutter. I am speaking softly, but he can hear every word.
He laughs a low, rich chuckle.
“That isn’t actually toad.”
“What is it?”
“Try it, you tell me.”
“It’s not, you know, the old lady from up the road, is it?”
Raucous laughter bursts out from him and echoes around the room, and even in candlelight, his eyes twinkle, making him look years younger. I remember, as he answers me, that he was only 28 when he was turned, it is just his eyes, really, that usually make him seem older.
“No. I’m part of the raw food movement, so to speak. And I would never serve you human flesh, Josephine, unless that was what you craved.”
As he says the last word, his eyes turn serious.
“You’d serve me human if I wanted it?”
“I will give you everything and anything your heart desires.”
“For as long as it beats,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
I swallow hard. This conversation is heading in a direction I would prefer it didn’t.
Looking down, I pick up my fork and prepare to dig into my meal. I’m relieved to find it is none other than sausage and gravy in a thick batter.
He lets me eat in silence for a full ten minutes before asking what I think of the dish.
“Beef,” I shrug, “a little heavy and plain for my liking.”
“It is a staple of this area, sometimes beef, sometimes pork sausages, but the batter remains much the same. However, I’m sensing that given you have barely touched the meals the butler has sent to your room this past week, you would prefer more a la carte dining?”
“Of course,” I shrug again. Although in truth, I’d eaten very little because the pain killers were suppressing my appetite, usually I eat quite a lot for someone my size.
“Or would you prefer to cook it yourself?” I hear amusement in his tone and look up. “I understand you have already spent time in my kitchens.”
‘Ah, so the butler did tell him about me.’
“Would you like to cook here, Josephine? I could hire a chef, a cordon bleu chef, as your personal trainer, so to speak, in all matters culinary?” he asks gently.
“You want to keep me as your personal chef?” I hear my voice rise an octave in surprise.
“For the time being.”
