I’m notsure how I expected my introduction to Auguste Thibodeaux—which was more of a mouthful than I could comfortably say—to go. But I certainly hadn’t expected to be doing it in the kitchens.
It was almost eleven at night, and I’d spent the better part of the evening in my room, pacing, afraid of wrinkling my dress. There was no dinner because Magdalena said Auguste wanted to eat with me. I thought perhaps she meant Auguste wanted to eat me, because…well, vampire. But as I followed Magdalena down to the kitchens, I did smell food. Specifically, chocolate.
My mouth was watering to an embarrassing degree.
Chocolate and cake and ginger and lemon and…
It was the scent of sweets in the kitchens at the Pickerings during the holidays, flavors I had snuck into my mouth by the teaspoon and always wanted more of. And now they were lining the heavy wood table at the heart of the room, like a buffet of delights meant solely for me.
The kitchen lamps were dim, and the room was homely and cluttered. I hadn’t seen any staff but Magdalena’s golems, and I wondered if they worked in here too. As Magdalena and I stood in the doorway at the top of the steps, there was only one person at work. A man stood at the counter with his back to us. I’d been dressed up in an impossible gown for the evening, while he stood there in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and gray trousers covered with a brown apron. It seemed supremely unfair.
“Auguste.”
He spun at Magdalena’s greeting and some of the nervous excitement making my palms sweat and my heart pound receded. He had flour streaked all over the apron and across his pale cheek. And oh but he was handsome. Not like Amon’s exquisite beauty, but in a way that would have stopped me on the street to giggle and grin as he passed. He had dark hair swooped back from his face and skin as pale as the finest lady’s, but his features were strong and wide and there was black stubble across his jaw.
His eyes, an ice blue, almost white but for the edges, landed on me at once. There was no stopping the feminine pride I felt as his face went slack, staring at me.
I liked Dr. Underwood’s taste in dresses too. The deep red-pink of the color brought a blush out on my cheeks, and the cut of the neckline was scandalously low. It would be ridiculous to be walking into a humble kitchen, if not for the fact that there was no one else here and Auguste Thibodeaux looked…hungry to see me.
“I’ll leave you two to your introductions,” Magdalena said, and I could hear her grin, but I was too happy to stare back at the man across from me.
He blinked, glanced for half a breath at her, and said, “Thanks, Mags.”
My eyebrows lifted at that. Mags? I’d have been a little jealous if he hadn’t had such a difficult time tearing his eyes off me.
“I—" He stopped again, blinking and shaking his head. “I am…coated in flour.” He grinned, and all the sharp angles of his face were tucked away with two perfect dimples as he reached down for his too-dirty-to-be-useful apron and tried to wipe his hands.
I stepped down the small set of stairs, feeling the cool fabric of the dress lick against my skin as I moved. “You made all this?” I asked, having to swallow to keep from drooling all over myself as I glanced down at tray upon tray of fruit and pastry and dark chocolate.
“I was a patissier,” he said, taking uneven steps around the long table to reach me. The accent was hidden there, although I could hear it in that little twist of the fancy word. “Pastry chef,” he said, for my benefit.
There was no blush on his cheeks, maybe vampires didn’t blush—wouldn’t that be unfair when I couldn’t help myself—but there was a distinctly sheepish twist to his lips that left me relaxing just a bit more.
“And it’s for me?” I asked, feeling my own cheeks swell.
He looked down the length at the table, glancing back at me briefly, just long enough for his eyes to skim right down my collar between my breasts. “I wanted to feed you,” he said.
I snorted and then covered my mouth, but Auguste didn’t look disgusted by the undignified sound. He grinned, flashing those dimples again, and his eyes traced over me. “I overprepared,” he said.
“And after? I feed you?” I asked.
I didn’t expect the response. He had seemed so calm and bashful and entirely human. But with that suggestion, his face sharpened again and almost all the blue of his eyes dilated to black and he took three, long strides until I was pressed to the table and our chests were touching. I held my breath, waiting for the bite or the kiss or whatever happened next when you teased a vampire. And his head did lower. The tip of his nose traced over my shoulder, and then he pulled back, stepping away and releasing me.
“We can decide that later,” he said, tone a little hoarse.
I released my breath, a shaky sound, and discovered that rather than relieved, I was faintly disappointed.
“Sit with me,” he said, pulling a bench out from under the table loaded with sweets.
I ran my eyes over the food again, glancing at Auguste and wondering if it would be worth it to tease him more, fray a little of that control. Instead, my eyes snagged, not on pastry or handsome vampire, but a round, waxy-looking fruit.
“What’s this?” I asked, picking one up out of the bowl it sat in. “It matches my dress.”
“Pomegranate,” Auguste said, lifting it out of my hands. His fingers were cool to the touch, and I sat down next to him on the bench, our legs pointed in opposite directions so we could face each other. I watched as his fingers dug into the flesh of the fruit, brilliant rich juice seeping out as he tore it open, revealing caverns full of deep reddish-purple seeds.
He plucked one seed up and lifted it to my mouth. I ducked down, plucking it out of his fingers with my lips and letting my teeth graze his fingertips. I hummed as the seed broke against my tongue, filling my mouth with a juice so bright and sweet and tart, it seemed a shame for it to come in such a small dose. When I looked up, his eyes were going black again, his lips pursed tightly together as if he was hiding those fangs I wanted to see so badly.
“In Greece, they call it the fruit of the dead. They say that it grew from drops of Apollo’s blood.”
“Was he a vampire too?” I asked.
Some of the hungry haze cleared from Auguste’s face as he laughed. “No. A god. Do you know any of those old stories?”
“To be honest,” I said, leaning onto the table. “I barely know the Christian ones, and my aunt took me to church every Sunday growing up. I was too busy making up naughty stories in my head to pay attention. But if you want to tell me one now, I promise to behave myself.”
“Hmm,” Auguste said, eyes narrowing. He lifted more seeds up to my lips, and I took them greedily, enjoying the briefly stupefied reaction on his face as I licked his skin with a flick of my tongue. He had a dry kind of flavor, none of the salt of skin you usually tasted on someone, and I thought of a dozen little things I wanted to discover next about him. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he said, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Promise,” I said again, scooting closer so that my hips rested against his. There was no body heat.
“Here,” Auguste said, picking up a small plate of round chocolates. “Try these with the fruit, and I will tell you about Persephone and Hades.”
I took one of the chocolates from the plate, and my breath hitched in my chest as I slipped it between my lips. I moaned, fingers covering my mouth as my eyes widened. It was bitter in contrast to the pomegranate seeds, but it melted like silk on my tongue and grew sweeter with every passing second. Auguste smiled and fed me a few more seeds before setting the plate down.