Chapter Eight
EIGHT
“Tea,” Eleonore repeated, staring at the replicator. “Earl Grey, hot.”
The replicator remained silent. No tea appeared.
Frustration simmered in her veins. She’d already tried ordering warm blood, warm milk, and a bottle of whiskey to no avail. At the very least it had to be familiar with tea, right? But no, the infernal box sat smugly on the countertop, refusing to produce a single thing she wanted.
Her chest felt too tight, and her stomach was full of knots. She kept replaying the moment the man had grabbed her arm. “Watch it, lady,” he’d said, and she’d felt a wave of such blinding fury she hadn’t realized she’d moved until he was pinned to the wall. She’d even temporarily forgotten where she was, living out memories and instincts that ought to have remained buried.
Was she going mad?
Eleonore made a frustrated sound and whacked the top of the replicator with a wooden spoon. It had come from a jar that held an array of kitchen implements arranged like flowers. “Computer, listen to me!”
“Ah…why are you hitting my microwave with a spoon?”
She turned to find Ben standing in the entrance to the kitchen, looking perplexed. “Your replicator is broken,” she said, feeling foolish and flushed.
He’d changed into pajama pants and a T-shirt, and his feet were bare. His toes scrunched rhythmically against the border between the living room floorboards and the kitchen linoleum: one foot, then the other. “A replicator,” he repeated slowly. “Like…from Star Trek ?”
“Yes!” Finally, they were speaking the same language. “I’ve requested blood, milk, whiskey, and tea, and it refuses to produce a single thing.” She glared at the black box. “I think it’s mocking me.”
Christ’s toes, she needed a drink. Something warm or alcoholic enough to loosen the tension in her throat.
Ben looked between her and the replicator. His eyes reminded her of a puppy dog’s, a bit wide and lost. “How do you know so much about Star Trek but nothing about microwaves?”
She smacked the black box with the spoon again. “Whatever it’s called, can you make this work?”
“What are you trying to heat up?” He padded over, shoulders slightly curved. She’d noticed he adopted that posture more often than not. He ought to stand up straight—there was no ignoring his height, even if he did slouch.
“Anything,” Eleonore said. “I want to drink something hot or something that will get me drunk.” The leftover blood in the refrigerator was cold or she’d have plugged her fangs into it already.
He reached for the handle on the black box and tugged it open, revealing a round glass plate inside. “This is a microwave, not a replicator. It doesn’t create anything the way it does in Star Trek . It just heats things up.”
“Oh.” Eleonore looked at the microwave, embarrassed. It seemed she would never stop making herself a fool in front of him. “Can you make it function so I can have hot blood?” She hadn’t finished dinner, and her fangs itched with the memory of how close she’d come to killing that man.
What must Ben think of her?
“I have a better idea,” he said, closing the microwave.
A few minutes later, the blood from the refrigerator sat in a saucepan on the stovetop. Eleonore watched carefully as Ben fiddled with the dials, explaining this would heat more gradually and evenly than the microwave. She’d seen ovens before, obviously, but this one had perplexed her—there were no metal rings or other visible heating elements, so it was a surprise when concentric orange circles glowed to life on the smooth black surface.
Ben grabbed a flat rectangular packet and unwrapped it before placing it in the microwave. When he pressed a button, the machine whirred to life, noisy and bright through the glass door.
Supposedly that packet contained popcorn. Eleonore watched, fascinated, as the popcorn turned on its glass pedestal. When the first pop of a kernel sounded, she let out a startled laugh. “Marvelous.” The witch had always summoned food for the two of them, so she was unfamiliar with technology like this.
“When was the last time you left the witch’s cabin again?” Ben asked.
“Nineteen sixty-nine,” she said, bending to study the gradually inflating bag. Pop pop pop it went, the noise cheering her.
“They had microwaves back then, didn’t they?”
She shrugged as she straightened. “Maybe. It was a brief visit. I abducted my target and brought him straight to the witch.” Seeing the uncomfortable shift in Ben’s expression, she felt the urge to explain herself. “I didn’t kill that one. The witch did. And he was a bad man, anyway.”
That was one small comfort she’d seized upon. Eleonore didn’t shy away from violence, but it needed to be justified, and she hated being someone else’s sword. The witch had made sure to detail the crimes of her enemies before each mission, though, which had made it easier to kill them. Even the humans Eleonore abducted for the witch every fifty years or so—which the witch herself drained of life to prolong her own life span—were carefully selected. Human monsters , the witch had said while watching Eleonore dig a grave for the man from 1969. The world will not miss them.
Eleonore had been too disgusted by the actions of those humans to fuck them. She had fucked the witch’s less-objectionable enemies in the past, though. Not because the witch had ordered her to—for all her crimes, forcing Eleonore to have sex against her will would have horrified even that foul sorceress—but because Eleonore had hungers that needed sating. She’d long since resigned herself to a life without true love or lasting passion, but premurder sex was as valid as hate sex. Like scratching an itch.
She eyed Ben’s broad shoulders. Were she to succumb to the temptation to explore this werewolf’s body, it would be no different.
Ben cleared his throat. “Want an introduction to the other kitchen gadgets?” he asked.
Relieved at not having to explain her murders further, and not wanting to think too much about Ben’s shoulders or the differences between sex and passion, Eleonore nodded.
Ben took her on a tour of the cabinets as the popcorn began popping more urgently. She was introduced to a toaster, a coffeepot, a blender, and a slow cooker. For anything she didn’t recognize, he briefly explained how it worked.
Her ignorance was still mortifying, but Ben managed to educate her in such a way that she didn’t feel he was judging her. When she praised the convenience of an automated dishwasher, he smiled, the skin beside his eyes crinkling agreeably. “I’ll show you everything,” he promised. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize earlier that you wouldn’t be familiar with most of these things.”
He wore a soft expression she didn’t totally understand. It had better not be pity.
“Can I borrow your PADD, too?” she asked. At his confused look, she clarified. “Your device. Phone. You said you can look things up on it.”
“Oh, yes.” He reached for his pocket, then hesitated. “Let me give you a tutorial before I let you borrow it. I want to make sure you don’t accidentally dial Gigi or something.”
The microwave beeped, shrill and insistent. The air smelled delicious, and Eleonore’s stomach rumbled. She grabbed a mug and poured heated blood into it, then turned the stovetop dial to the off position. Ben nodded in confirmation she’d done the right thing before grabbing a large bowl and pouring popcorn into it. “Feel free to dive in,” he said, handing it over. “I’m going to make myself some hot cocoa.”
Eleonore took the bowl and mug of blood to the living room, placing them on the low table before the couch. She settled in cross-legged on the brown leather and tugged a blanket over her lap. It was the same blanket he’d laid over her earlier, and she liked the feel of it.
She liked the taste of hot blood even more. Though she wasn’t thirsty in the survival sense, there was comfort in the coppery warmth sliding down her throat. Following a swig with a handful of greasy popcorn was even better. She munched, watching the purpling sky outside the window lose its last streaks of light.
Ben appeared with a mug in his hand and a plastic bag full of white objects in the other. “This might be a terrible idea,” he said, holding the bag up, “but marshmallows improve hot cocoa, so I thought I’d bring them out in case you want to try them with blood.”
Eleonore eyed the bag with interest as he settled in on the other end of the couch. He didn’t sit too close, which she appreciated, but there was something nice about the casual companionship.
Ben opened the bag, then handed her a marshmallow. Eleonore studied the fluffy white object, then gave it a tentative lick. Her nose crinkled. “It’s sweet.”
“Like I said, it may not go with blood—I just figured I’d give you the option.”
Eleonore shrugged and plopped the marshmallow into her mug. “Let’s find out.”
Blood laced with sugary sweetness was…odd but interesting, she decided on the first sip. The second sip was better. By the time she was halfway done with the mug, now a raspberry pink from the mix of blood and sugar, she was a convert.
“It’s the strangest combination of flavors,” she told Ben around a mouthful of popcorn, “but somehow it works.”
“I’m glad.” He’d eaten popcorn along with her at first, but his pace had slowed, and his mind had seemed to wander to places that cast a shadow over his face. Now he sat with his mug in his lap, staring down at the liquid. He fiddled with it, biting his lip, and his toes were rubbing against the floor again.
“What is it?” Eleonore asked.
He lifted his head. “What?”
“You look like you want to say something.”
He blew out a breath. “Am I that obvious?”
She eyed him, from the tips of his scrunching toes to the wrinkle in his brow. Eleonore had met many liars over the centuries, and Ben was either the greatest one in history or pathetically bad at it. Her bet was on pathetically bad. “Yes.”
His chuckle was strained. “You do like saying what you think.”
“I’m told it’s a refreshing trait.” She had been told nothing of the sort. She waved a hand, motioning for him to get on with it. “So? What is it?”
He closed his eyes, and his chest expanded on a deep breath. Eleonore eyed that chest, thinking how useful it would be to have lungs of that scale. Wondering what it would feel like to lie atop his chest and feel his breath lifting her, too.
“There’s a bit of a situation,” he said.
When he didn’t immediately clarify, Eleonore prodded for more. “What kind of situation?” Did her knives need to be involved?
He set the mug on the table, then shifted to face her, hands clasped in his lap. “My sister’s running for mayor,” he said. “Apparently what happened tonight at the restaurant showed up online, and she called me. The video is gaining traction.”
The gods-damned internet again, which Eleonore really needed to learn how to use. She flushed to think about strangers watching a recording of her outburst. “And?”
He raked a hand through his shaggy hair. “Well, I kind of panicked when she asked me what was going on, and I…uh…might have told her you’re an actress who’s going to put on a show at the Emporium’s café and what happened at the restaurant was an advertisement for that.”
Eleonore blinked at the sudden rush of words, which he’d spat out like maybe if he said them quickly enough, she wouldn’t notice their content. “That was very creative of you.” Though why he seemed so nervous about it, she couldn’t say.
Honestly, it was a relief to have her actions excused away by something like the theatre. Yes, acting was technically lying, but it was using the skill for a positive purpose. She’d loved puppet shows, pantomimes, and the stray stage performances she’d been able to sneak away to watch. The time she’d managed to get in on the ground floor at the Globe Theatre in 1607 was a fond memory amid a slew of unwelcome ones.
Ben winced. “Yeah, well, Gigi’s platform apparently involves supporting the arts, so she decided to announce her candidacy at the café’s opening. Followed by a stage performance.”
This didn’t seem like news worthy of the way he was squeezing his fingers together so tightly the knuckles were white. “You don’t approve of her plan?” she asked.
“The stage isn’t built yet,” he said. “And there are no shows in the works. Which means Gigi’s expecting a performance…by you.”
Eleonore stared at Ben, waiting for an indication he was joking. Not that the werewolf seemed overly inclined to jokes so far—or else Eleonore simply didn’t understand his sense of humor—but a statement that absurd couldn’t possibly be taken at face value.
His hands were clasped in his lap, and he was squeezing them together in rhythmic pulses. It reminded her of his foot fidgets.
“You aren’t serious,” she said.
Ben winced. “I am, unfortunately.”
And the werewolf didn’t like lying.
“No,” she said.
“Please just hear me out,” Ben said, as if she hadn’t made her intentions clear. “Any negative publicity about Gigi’s family—me—could hurt her mayoral campaign.”
“Why does that require me to perform on your stage?” She wasn’t even sure what such a show would entail. If he expected jokes, he was talking to the wrong person—a lifetime of imprisonment and murder hadn’t left her with a wide comedic repertoire.
“I told you, it explains what happened at the restaurant. We can say it was a viral stunt to drum up publicity.”
Eleonore wasn’t sure what viruses had to do with anything, but surely there were other possible explanations that didn’t involve her becoming an actress. “Another explanation is that the man annoyed me and I retaliated.”
Or the man startled me and I temporarily lost my mind.
Ben sighed. “Please, Eleonore. Gigi really needs to win. Our current mayor is awful.”
“Most political leaders are.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I fail to see how that’s my problem.”
“Because you were the one who nearly killed someone in Brittany’s on camera!”
It seemed like an uncharacteristically vehement exclamation from him, but then again, she’d known him for less than a day. Most men ended up shouting eventually.
Eleonore also ended up shouting sometimes. Frequently. Too often, perhaps. She shifted, looking down into the bowl of popcorn as her skin flushed hot with embarrassment again at the reminder of her near-crime. “I wouldn’t have actually killed him,” she said. “Probably.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if you wouldn’t have, people are talking. And Gigi asked me—you—to do this.” There was a pause. “Or at least she told me it should happen.”
Eleonore shoved the popcorn back onto the table and stood, beginning to pace. “So you want to pretend what happened at the restaurant was a stunt to draw attention for a theatrical performance. And then you want me to act in said performance so your sister can say she supports the arts and ask people to vote for her for mayor.”
He winced. “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s just one night. Surely you can come up with something. Even a short monologue would work.”
Eleonore scoffed and looked out the window at the blue-black night. The warm, salty-sweet taste of blood, marshmallows, and popcorn lingered on her tongue. She should have known the food wasn’t an earnest offering but a trick to get her to agree to this absurd plan. No outstretched hand could be trusted, no matter what rewards it contained. A second hand was always behind the giver’s back, holding a weapon.
“I will not do this,” she said.
Ben sighed and bent forward, propping his elbows on his knees and looking up at her beseechingly. “You have to, Eleonore.”
She stiffened. So far he’d avoided turning the request into an order, but that wording had done it. She felt a mystical tug in her chest, the invisible urgency of a task that needed to be accomplished. “As you command,” she said softly.
He had sad puppy eyes again. Connard. “It’s just one night,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, but Gigi’s my family. I would do anything for her.”
Then why wasn’t he donning a costume and parading around onstage? Because he hadn’t been the one threatening violence in public , a more reasonable inner voice replied, but Eleonore had no patience for reasonable voices at the moment, inner or outer. Ben had volunteered her for something without her consent, then ordered her to complete it. She was a prisoner to the crystal and to him, and he had decreed her first act of servitude would be putting on a one-woman theatrical show at his coffee shop.
Fury burned in her chest, and bile rose in her throat. It wasn’t the nature of the task that infuriated her—a monologue was better than murder, after all. It was that Ben had commanded her to do it.
“I thought you didn’t like lying,” she said.
“I don’t.” He switched to rubbing his temples; she spitefully hoped he had a headache. “Things are a mess right now. I’m trying to open the café, Gigi sprung her campaign on me, and now you’re here, and I have no idea what to do. I’m just trying to hold things together.”
Bold of him to blame part of his struggle on her. She hadn’t just shown up, after all—he had deliberately sought her out. Purchased her, in fact! Accidental or not, this was his doing.
Ben Rosewood might be bashful and a terrible liar, but he was also proving to be like everyone else she’d ever met: determined to get his own way, with Eleonore relegated to nothing but a tool for his ambitions.
She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. Now that she’d been commanded, she had to carry out his mission, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t seize some measure of control—or revenge—from it. As the witch had learned early on, specificity was important when giving Eleonore orders.
“Very well,” she said, holding out her hand. “Give me your PADD so I can research modern theatre.” In addition to everything else she needed to research in order to survive in this time.
He handed it to her gingerly, as if expecting her to hurl it against the wall. Did he think her foolish? No one in her position would refuse the key to decades of missing knowledge.
“Thank you,” he said after telling her the passcode and showing her how to access the internet on the device. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
As if she believed that. She left the room without a word.
So Ben Rosewood wanted her to put on a theatrical performance to help promote his sister’s mayoral campaign? Eleonore would deliver…and then some. She wasn’t familiar with modern theatre yet, but she’d seen enough over the years to know a theatrical performance could involve any number of alarming, questionable, or embarrassing things.
She pulled up the internet browser and typed in strangest theatrical shows in history .
Ben, his sister, and everyone else who showed up to the performance were about to be very, very uncomfortable.