Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99700 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Mum took my mobile, so I couldn’t,” Dante said, shaking his head. “Tried to sneak out once or twice too. But you know Mum.”
“She looks so young,” Victor said, making Pandora stiffen.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Really good genes,” she said.
“And your father is …”
“Scary as hell?” Dante filled in for him. “I would say he’s a big softy underneath it all, but that would be a lie. He’s got a soft spot for Pandy, but that only means he’s gonna hate you all the more.”
“Not helping,” Pandora said, wincing.
“Pandy?” Victor asked, shooting Pandora a smile.
“Here, dear,” Ravenna said, shoving a goblet toward Victor. “You must be parched!”
Panicked, Pandora’s hand shot out, grabbing the goblet before Victor could lift it to his lips.
He shot her a scrunched-brow look as she sniffed the liquid.
But it was wine.
“Just wine,” she said on an exhale.
“What else would it be, dear?” Ravenna asked, looking at Pandora like she was the crazy one.
“Thank you,” Victor said, pulling his glass back and taking a polite sip.
It was virtually impossible for vampires to get drunk. But Pandora was moments away from testing that theory.
“Of course, my dear. Dinner should be ready shortly,” she said, making Pandora’s stomach sink.
“Dinner?” she asked, looking at Dante. “Please tell me they ordered in.”
“Afraid not,” he said, giving her a pained look she didn’t quite understand.
“What’s the problem?” Victor asked, looking between the two of them.
“Oh, nothing. It’s just … no one in my family is a good cook. We’re, er, cursed that way, I guess. So maybe just … take a couple of small, polite bites.”
Dante nodded. “Or spit it discreetly into your napkin.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Victor said.
That was where he was wrong.
As he would find out after a few more tense introductions, mostly only on Pandora’s part. Victor seemed to be handling things effortlessly. Even occasionally shooting her reassuring smiles.
“Can I ask you something?” he asked as everyone started to file into the dining room.
“Sure,” she asked, instantly on edge.
“Your family … the way they dress and speak …”
“Oh!” she said, mind racing. “They’re, you know, part of a historical reenactment society. They really get into character sometimes. It’s hard for them to, well, turn it off. Uncle Reginald especially,” she added, glad to plant seeds of doubt for when Uncle Reggie eventually said something that wouldn’t make any sense. “He’s kind of a … What do they call them? When an actor really commits to a part?”
“A method actor,” Victor said.
“Right. That. He once went around telling us that he was a close personal friend of Socrates,” she said, rolling her eyes for emphasis.
“That explains it,” Victor said. Pandora thought she heard a false note in his voice, but they’d just made their way into the dining room. And, well, there were other, more important problems at hand.
Like the fact that there was an entire roasted pig sitting in the center of the table like decor, an apple in its mouth.
Ravenna was still standing, waiting for them to enter, proud and puffed as a peacock as she waved at the feast. “We have all of the best here! Suckling pig, swan pie, jellied eel, ox tongue in claret sauce, lamprey in blood sauce, pottage, butter-basted turnips, and honeyed parsnips!”
Pandora’s gaze searched the table for Dante, suddenly understanding the sick, almost green, look he’d given her when speaking of her family cooking.
They’d certainly cooked, all right.
Delicacies, even.
By medieval standards, maybe.
Victor looked a bit grey at the selection.
He leaned in close to Pandora’s ear. “Isn’t it illegal to kill swans?”
“Oh, um, I’m sure it’s just, like, actually chicken,” she said, sure of no such thing. “Stick to the veg and pottage,” she whispered to him before Ravenna rushed forward, breaking them apart to sit them across from each other at the table.
“Reginald, dear, if you could do the honors,” she said, waving toward the pig.
And then her uncle stood and proceeded to draw his sword and attempt to carve with that, knocking over a decanter of wine in the process.
Pandora almost brought up her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands. It was her mother’s intense, perceptive gaze that kept her spine against the chair back and her chin lifted.
The mess was cleaned up and Dante grabbed an actual carving knife from the kitchen and began to carve the meat himself, as everyone else started to add food to their plates.
“You need to eat, dear,” Ravenna chided Pandora, tapping her arm.
Pandora was getting the impression that her great-aunt was fancying herself the family’s expert on humans and human customs. It was both endearing, because Pandora had to appreciate how much she was clearly trying, and hilarious, because Ravenna and Reginald lived in a castle on a coastal cliff overlooking Devon. Where she and her husband rarely, if ever, interacted with humans, preferring to have a revolving door of guests hole up with them in elegance and seclusion.