37. Vesper #4
I’d been about to drop down into the large ice-carved chair when he’d spoken those words. Instead, I freeze and stare at him as he takes his own seat. “What?”
“Sit! Sit!” Anders says. It sounds jovial, but it’s not a request. I’m slowly starting to realize that Steve isn’t the only one that affects freewill around here.
The table is laid out with all manner of food I’ve never seen before.
In the center, there’s a large hunk of meet that’s been sliced for easy partitioning.
It’s massive, bigger than anything animal I’ve ever eaten before, but I don’t comment on it as Anders plops a big slice on my plate first and then Locke’s.
“Grab any sides you’d like,” Gustav says gently. “I personally like gravy on my ham.”
I stare at all the other dishes for a few seconds before shrugging and grabbing the nearest one.
I’m starving and all this food smells amazing, even if I don’t trust it.
Even with the safety guidelines, this place feels menacing.
I can’t place my finger on it, but all the fake joy and forced brightness makes my skin crawl.
If not for the food and that hot cocoa, I don’t think I would have enjoyed Christmas otherwise.
As it is, the food is really fucking good.
Good enough that I stay exactly where I’m seated and load up my plate with every option available.
When I run out of room, I load up a second, and dig in before it can get cold.
As much as I hate to admit it, Anders is right.
Christmas ham is probably the best thing I’ve ever had.
Even better than AppleFrog’s. I have to remember to moderate myself so I don’t make myself sick, but after I get a taste of everything, I throw caution to the wind.
If I have to be sick for this, I’ll do it.
Even if Locke has to roll me out of here afterward.
Locke seems to have the same idea, both of us shoveling food into our mouths faster than more can appear.
Only when we both lean back do I realize that Anders and Gustav never took a bite.
“You’re not going to eat?” I ask, glancing between them.
“Christmas Dinner is my favorite!” Anders says. “I can’t wait for Santa to come. Santa’s my favorite.” He gestures to a small table where a glass of white liquid and a plate of cookies sit. “I’ve already set out the oatmeal raisin cookies and breastmilk for him.”
I’d been in the middle of a bite. Unfortunately for me, when Anders says those words, it shocks me so much that I end up spitting out the very good bite of ham I’d taken. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
Anders chuckles. “Santa loves his oatmeal raisin cookies.”
“And . . . breastmilk?” I say, my face scrunched up.
I’ve never been a mother, but I know what breastmilk is.
Any person who survives to adulthood in Dross does.
Infants can’t eat Harrow Bars, so breastmilk is the only thing that ensures you grow up.
But, from what I understand, the stains of the Dross air Leech into a mother’s milk.
Sometimes the infants die. Sometimes they survive.
Either way, I know that breastmilk on Dross is never quite white.
It’s always just a little . . . dirty looking.
The milk in the glass on the table is pristine, unblemished white.
“Whose breastmilk?” Locke asks the more important question. Because we’re the only ones here supposedly. And I’m the only woman here. And I’m definitely not producing any milk.
Anders just looks at me with that bright, unnatural smile. He doesn’t answer the question and I grow sick to my stomach. I don’t know why, but my instincts scream at me that something more sinister is going on here.
“It’s half past time to sleep,” Gustav says suddenly, standing from his seat. “I suggest you two get some rest or else Santa won’t bring you any gifts.”
“That’s right,” Anders adds. “Naughty boys and girls get nothing but coal for Christmas.”
“Coal doesn’t sound . . . too bad,” Locke says hesitantly.
Anders meets his eyes. “They’re hot and smoldering as he shoves them down your throat.”
Locke swallows and leans closer to me. “I don’t think I like this Santa guy,” he whispers, but it seems to echo around us.
Steve stares a little harder.
“I . . . think we should head to bed,” I say, standing and dragging Locke with me.
“Good idea,” Svetlana says, just as unnerved as I am. And that says a lot. She leaps up onto my arm and climbs back up to my shoulder. “Go, Umnitsa, before they harvest our organs and milk you,” she hisses in my ear.
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I wave at Anders and Gustav with a smile and drag Locke away. When he goes to slip inside his own room, I drag him to mine.
“Uh-uh,” I say, dragging him into my room and locking the door behind us. “I’m not staying alone in this room in case this Santa fucker shows up. Fuck that.”
Locke opens his mouth as if to argue and shuts it. He puts up no fight as we both slide into the heavy furs draped over the ice bed and I wrap myself around him. I take my BloodSense Fang out of my inventory and set it on the bedside table.
Just in case.
Ain’t no one gonna milk me without a fight.