Author Notes: Back from a brief break in which I erased about four chapters and cleaned up the plotline a little bit. It was trying to become a massive murder mystery. I’m doing my best to keep this firmly in romcom territory. Also, rereading this chapter made me hungry. 🙂

©2026, Vampires Love Garlic by Ashley Chapman – All rights reserved.

13

McKenzie

Feast of Killers

I couldn’t ask Heather to help me with the summons, so I did what vampires do best. I puffed up my chest with pride, told myself I was enough, and threw together the greatest, most discombobulated assortment of food, drinks, and dishes available.

Come the afternoon of the great meeting, I had a clean house, a pristine grand dining room… and a nightmare of a kitchen.

I have French onion soup trying to boil over on the stove in a pot big enough to hold a German Shepherd.

My charcuterie board looks like a slaughterhouse.

I’ve brought up twelve bottles of white wine, seven bottles of bourbon, three bottles of whiskey, and twenty bottles of blood wine from the cellar. They’re all lined up beautifully on an island that looks like a host of vegetables committed suicide in the most grotesque way possible. Crystal glasses of all sizes, shapes, and colors are piled in a disaster befitting the Tower of Babel.

Veal.

I wanted to make veal for dinner.

Why?

Because I’m a vampire. I’m perfect. I’m beautiful. I’m better than humans.

I’m an idiot.

I’ve got bread burning in the oven. I have no idea how it’s burning. The damn things were prepackaged, preseasoned, and all I had to do was bake them.

Dessert…

Oh my God.

Dessert is Cherries Jubilee.

Again.

I’m an idiot.

Vampire Rule Number Freaking 11:

Vampires can’t cook.

Historically, we’ve never had to. We’ve always had servants. When we haven’t had servants, we’ve survived by tearing open throats and draining people dry. No ovens or stoves required.

I have the head members of thirty prominent vampire houses coming to my house in three hours.

They’re expecting perfection or at least an attempt at it.

So far they’re getting burnt toast, burnt soup, possibly burnt vegetables, burnt veal, and a dessert that’s literally going to be on fire.

Let’s add the cherry on top, shall we? Because I haven’t seen enough blasted cherries this evening.

The smoke detector’s going off.

I’m going to suddenly sprout wings and fly the twelve feet up to the wretched thing and tear it apart wire by wire. With my teeth. If I have to.

“Kenzie?”

Is that Heather?

My God! Heather! Oh, saints above! Dear Lord, I hope the girl can really cook!

“In the freaking, blasted kitchen!” I shout over the alarm.

She appears in the kitchen doorway, a ladder in hand.

I don’t believe I’ve ever been happier to see her.

She places the ladder under the smoke detector and climbs it with ease. She reaches up and taps the tiny button that silences the wretched beast. Her shirt… plaid, simple… rises just enough that I get a peek at her abdomen, flat and soft, and for one terrifying moment my mind blanks.

“I came to add some decorations to the top of the back bar,” Heather explains, climbing back down the ladder. “I thought I smelled something burning, and then the detector was going off…” She stops mid-sentence and looks at the chaos around me.

“Are you having company? Did I interrupt?” she asks.

I’m willing to get down on my hands and knees, right this second, if she’ll help me.

“Family,” I say rather quickly. “Thirty people. I promised elegance. I promised charm. I promised… not burnt.”

“What are you trying to make?”

I sigh, drag in a deep breath, then let it out with a long whoosh.

“Finely cut vegetables with dip for an appetizer. French onion soup before the main course. Veal Marsala with French bread for dinner. Cherries Jubilee for dessert.”

She wanders through my kitchen, looking over my havoc.

“Veal marsala,” she says quietly. “Have you started on the mushroom sauce for it? Sometimes it’s nice to let it sit for just a little bit to let it thicken up. Are your vegetable dressings already prepared, or do you need to make them? Do you have a list or any sort of check-off sheet?”

“Honestly.” I lean against one of the counters, staining the elbow of my white shirt. “I have no clue what I’m doing.”

“You already started making the bread? When will your guests be here? In twenty minutes?” she asks, pulling the burnt loaves from the oven.

“Three hours.”

She’s trying not to laugh.

I can see it in the way she’s biting the inside of her cheek.

“Would you like some help?” she asks simply, and I do. Yes indeed. I drop onto my knees, right there in my kitchen, and put my hands to her denim-clad legs.

“Please. I’m not afraid to beg. I can get lower if you like. Do I need to lick your shoes? Fan you with a palm frond?”

“I need you to get me a piece of paper and a pen.”

She’s grinning now as she pats my head in a playfully superior fashion.

“There there. I’ll help you. Pen, paper, and then you need to run to the grocery store with the list I give you. Okay?”

She’s an angel.

My own personal Southern angel.

I make it to the grocery store in record time and return to find delicious smells flooding my mansion. I can feel saliva building in my mouth as I walk into the kitchen.

I’m absolutely floored.

White wine bottles are frosting in buckets of ice.

The French onion soup smells like paradise and is bubbling merrily on the burners.

Carrots, celery, cucumbers, tomatoes… sliced to perfection.

There’s a glass bowl of amazing-looking spinach dip.

Heather’s putting two large casserole dishes in the oven. She gives me a breathless “hello” and “thank you,” then takes all the groceries and puts both me and them to work. I peel sweet potatoes while she preps dough. She’s fast, effective, and completely confident. She has me pour Milo’s Sweet Tea (it’s a Southern staple, she says) into crystal pitchers. I add slices of lemon at her direction and then put everything in my massive fridge.

Everything is ready thirty minutes before guests are supposed to arrive.

I don’t know how she did it.

I have baskets of homemade yeast rolls, shimmering with butter and honey. She’s managed to make a huge amount of sweet potato casserole and green bean casserole. The fruit and vegetables look like they should be on the cover of a magazine. The veal Marsala is about to cast me into a coma just from the overpowering joy of its smell. Everything… everything is perfect. Including the dining room table and all the crystal glassware and silverware she laid out.

“There,” she says, clapping her hands together and laughing as a flour puff rises from her fingers. “You should be all set. I’ll stay in the kitchen, if you don’t mind. I wasn’t invited, but I can help you from here. I’ll keep everything warm and ready for you. Let me know when you’re ready for the soup. The fruit, veggies, and cheese are already out on the table. I don’t know how to pour wine, so you’ll have to do that yourself. Is it okay if I stay?”

Is it okay if she stays?

She’s a queen in my kitchen, and she’s asking if it’s okay.

And not really just to stay. To stay and help me.

“I would appreciate that, Heather. Yes. Thank you. And help yourself to anything in here. Just…don’t drink any of the 1789 vintage. I know you like history, but it’s strong stuff.”

It’s the truth. Blood wine would send a human keeling over after about two ounces of it.

“Oh, I don’t drink,” she says and perches herself on a bar stool. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

She pops a mushroom into her mouth and pulls out her phone, content to scroll through whatever social media platform she likes while I run upstairs and shower.

My nerves are a mess, which is saying something, since I’m never nervous.

I wish I was showering for bed or anything else, but I volunteered to host this shindig, so I may as well make the best of it.

The doorbell rings as I finish buttoning my shirt. I take my time getting downstairs. I’m poised, sophisticated, a millionaire. There’s no need to hurry. No need to impress anyone.

I open the door, and there he is.

Derrick Devoure, wearing that arrogant smirk that makes me want to punch him every time I see him.

“Evening, Mac,” he says with a grin. “This should be quite the night.”