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

15

Heather

There’s Something Wrong

But I can’t tell what it is.

As soon as McKenzie walked into the kitchen and asked for plates, I knew something wasn’t right. I could see the cords in his neck. They were protruding like he was straining against something, and his skin was flushed. His voice was clipped, and while he wasn’t short with me, I could tell he was just on the edge of anger.

His company is uncomfortable.

I don’t really know what other word to give them.

Since I came into the room, I’ve had the feeling that I’m being appraised. Like I’m a new car or perhaps a house to be looked at. I’m not dressed like they are, but I hadn’t expected to make a feast and sit among McKenzie’s peers when I unlocked the basement door earlier. I’m covered in flour and oil, and I’m sure I must smell like part of the meal.

At least, I think that’s what I must smell like to Derrick.

After a few words with McKenzie’s guests, Derrick is the only one who’s been conversing with me. He’s asked me about where I work and if I enjoy Savannah. He’s told me about Richmond, Virginia, where he’s from, and has poured me a glass of wine, which I don’t accept. He’s been polite, charming even, but he seems off.

I’ve caught him watching me once or twice when I’m eating, his eyes fixed on my throat as I swallow. I know I’m a bit of a messy eater, but am I really that disgusting?

None of the other people have even bothered to look at me. They’re talking with McKenzie about his upcoming engagement party and have chosen to ignore that I’m here. I don’t really mind that, but I don’t like how cold the room feels.

There’s an old fireplace in one of the walls, and I wish McKenzie would light it.

It almost feels like the whole room is dead.

Which doesn’t make any sense.

I look at McKenzie as the meal ends. I hope he’ll give me some sort of signal that I should get dessert, but no matter how hard I try, he won’t look at me. And he’s…he’s bent his fork. I think he must have stabbed his veal too hard, so the tines bent. Wait. It’s not the tines. It’s the actual fork. I wonder what’s wrong with him? He’s got a sheen of sweat glistening on his neck. I’ve never seen him sweat before.

I decide to get up and begin gathering plates. Derrick insists he should help, and I don’t really know how to tell him I don’t want it. He goes down one side of the table, and I go down the other. As I take the plates from several of McKenzie’s visitors, I realize that they’re holding their breaths. Like I stink. Like something about me is disgusting to them.

I stop at McKenzie and try to make eye contact again. His nostrils flare, and he hands me his plate without looking at my face.

His hands are trembling violently.

“Kenzie?” I ask softly, trying to be discreet. “Are you alright? You’re shaking. Is there something I can get you? Something to drink, maybe? There’s sweet tea.” I laugh lightly, trying to break the tension in the room. “It looks like no one wanted it, and…”

“I’m fine.”

He’s not fine, but I’m hurt by the bite in his words.

I don’t say anything more, but take his dishes and carry them into the kitchen.

Derrick places everything in McKenzie’s massive sink, and I start working on dessert. The cherries are all cleaned and pitted. I take out the gallons of ice cream I had McKenzie buy and ask Derrick to start scooping it into crystal ice cream dishes.

He does so without hesitation, and I focus on the Cherries Jubilee.

They come together quickly.

Derrick brings the ice cream saucers into the dining room. I follow behind with the large frying pan of alcohol-soaked cherries.

Even when I set the pan on fire, the guests look at me almost as though they’re bored.

“That’s lovely, dear,” one of the ladies states in a way that very much reads, “Bless your heart.”

And bless your heart, too.

By the time I get back to McKenzie, I’m uncomfortable enough and irritated enough that I plop a spoonful of cherries onto his ice cream without taking any care. The red liquid splatters onto his perfect white shirt. It looks like blood on skin. I don’t know why that slips through my mind, but it does.

I look to McKenzie’s guests and am glad to see they’re enjoying their desserts, but there’s something about the way they’re eating that is more than unsettling. It’s disturbing.

They’re letting the juice run down their chins and onto the table and napkins like they’ve done this before and aren’t interested in staying clean. For folks who are so snobby, I would think they wouldn’t want to make a mess.

They almost look like a clan of vampires feasting on blood.

I have no idea where that thought came from.

That’s just morbid and unkind.

“Sorry,” I murmur to McKenzie. “I’m going to head home. I think I’ve done enough damage.”

“No.”

There’s that short answer again, but this time it’s followed by him grasping my wrist. His hold isn’t painful, but it’s firm as he finally lifts his eyes to mine.

His pupils are blown wide.

Something has this man severely agitated or ill.

“Please stay,” he says, his voice softer than it’s been all evening. “I owe you an explanation, but I can’t give you one now.”

His irises are tinted with red. Barely, but enough to make me think he’s drunk.

I look to his glass and notice that he’s drinking sweet tea.

Maybe he’s sick from whatever was in that shot glass. There are still some drops of scarlet liquid in it, and I’m tempted to pick it up and smell it. Maybe that’s the 1789 he was talking about.

If it makes people’s eyes turn red and makes them sick, then I’m glad I wasn’t even tempted to try it.

“Are those…capers?” I ask, catching sight of the small green beads at the bottom of the glass.

That’s why he’s so moody!

He hates capers!

“Yes.”

He offers me the barest smile. I can hardly see his teeth, and yet there is something different about them that I can’t put my finger on.

“Why would someone put capers in wine?”

“To piss me off.”

His answer almost makes me smile. I feel relieved. This is why he’s so agitated.

“It’s Derrick, isn’t it?” I whisper.

He turns his eyes away from me and nods.

“Yes, and that’s why I’d rather you stay. Please. He’s an asshole, and I don’t want you leaving until I know he’s out of the picture.” He speaks loudly enough that Derrick can hear him, not worried in the slightest.

“I’ll stay,” I agree, putting my hand over his and squeezing it. “If it makes you feel better.”

“It does. Thank you.”

I leave the dining room, feeling more relaxed than I have since this dinner started.

I have my work cut out for me.

There are trays of food everywhere.

I rummage through McKenzie’s kitchen, finding all his plastic containers and sorting food appropriately. I’m unaware of the time as I put in an earbud and play some ‘80s rock while I turn my attention to the dishes.

I don’t know that I’ve ever had to wash this many at one time, but I don’t mind.

I begin scrubbing and sorting dishes into the dishwasher. Soap suds cover my arms, and bubbles pop in the air. One taps my nose, and I smile as it bursts and leaves faint residue on my skin.

I’ve always found the kitchen to be my favorite place in a house. I can get lost in my music or my thoughts while still being productive. I find fulfillment and peace in the simplicity of dipping my hands into warm water and scrubbing. I don’t have to worry about anyone’s opinions, or any discomfort, or any sort of…

“Ouch!” I exclaim as a sharp pain lances across my palm.

I pull my left hand out of the sink and watch, startled, as a deep strip of blood pools from a fresh cut. There must have been a broken glass in the water, and I must have grabbed it just right.

The pain dissolves as shock filters through my body.

This cut is deep. It’s going to need stitches.

Why can’t I move? Why am I fascinated with my own blood dripping like a living faucet into the soap suds? It’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience, staring at the clean cut that looks like someone took a small knife and sliced it perfectly across the skin of my palm.

I should get help.

But I can’t seem to move.

“Heather.”

That’s McKenzie’s voice coming from the kitchen doorway, but there’s something strained about it, something almost angry.

“Heather,” he repeats, his tone harsher. “You need to leave.”

“I…I cut myself,” I say, my tongue thick in my mouth. “I need help. It’s deep.”

More blood drips into the rapidly reddening suds.

“You need to wrap that, and you need to go.”

Is he seriously telling me to go right now? I’m bleeding all over his kitchen.

I turn away from the sink, holding my hand out in front of me, mindless of the blood fast dripping onto the hardwood floor.

“I can’t seem to move,” I say quietly, my eyes finding his.

And something is terribly, horribly, undeniably wrong.