Matthias reached out and lifted the dome, thinking about that old movie where Bette Davis the sadist fed Joan Crawford a similarly displayed rat.
But beneath the dome, the tasteful white dinner plate held not rat but roasted chicken, its skin crisped to a golden brown, juices seeping from beneath it onto the plate next to the baked potato of his dreams. Butter pooled in its center, and a tiny glass dish of sour cream sat beside it. A separate basket held rolls, and another glass bowl, pats of pale yellow butter.
His mouth watered. Actually salivated as he looked at the food. He paid no attention to Wolfie or his armed friend. He barely felt the prick of the needle into the side of his neck, at least not until the horrible burning sensation began again, so sudden and overwhelming he dropped to his hands and knees.
He burned as if his blood had turned to acid and was eating away at every blood vessel, every muscle, every bone, until it seemed inevitable that he’d eventually melt into one big pool of liquefied skin and smoking ash.
The room went gray, and his arms gave way. Rolling onto his side, he was dimly aware of feet moving away from him, the door opening and then closing.
He didn’t know how much time had passed before awareness began to seep back in. The burning sensation dwindled down to a raw memory, and the hunger returned.
Sitting up, he looked around the room, frantic until he saw it. They’d left the tray.
Matthias climbed to his feet, staggering like a drunken man toward the steel dome, fearful even now that he’d lift it and find a rat, or worse. But the chicken was there, and the smell of roasted meat and thyme and basil hit him like a slap. Could whatever they were giving him, the shots, possibly enable him to eat food again? What the hell was it?
His hand trembled, and he flexed his fingers to calm it before reaching out to pull a delicate web of roasted skin off one chicken leg. He held it to his nose, basked in the aroma; it didn’t make him sick or even disinterested. His mouth watered, his taste buds roared to life, and he stuck it in his mouth.
It was glorious. He chewed it, his teeth out of practice and feeling awkwardly big. He swallowed, and the sensation of something solid passing through his digestive system was alien to him.
He waited to see what would happen. He’d tried to eat after turning vampire—all vampires did, whether they admitted it or not. And they could eat for a few days after being turned. But when the thirst set in, the thirst for blood, all other taste failed to appeal.
Until now.
He’d been planning to rip off Frank Greisser’s balls and force him to eat them when he got out of here—but instead, he might buy the man a cigar and a steak cooked medium well.
Matthias pulled the tray to the nearest chair and polished off the rest of the chicken, and then the potato. He finished with bread and butter, best of all. He felt full. He was satisfied.
Humans, of course, had systems equipped to eliminate waste; how would that work for a vampire?
He settled back in the room’s armchair, watching German-language television and not understanding a word. Until he got the answer to his digestive question.
The pain propelled him from the chair and he again hit the floor on hands and knees, crawling toward the bathroom, which he had treated as a closet. He’d been allowed to retrieve some things from his New York estate, and he was horrified when the next agonizing spasm revisited his glorious baked potato inside his favorite Italian leather loafers.
CHAPTER 20
In the old Southern Mills’s biggest workroom, Mirren heaved the last remaining table into the wall, then picked it up and smashed it against the concrete floor until it lay in kindling sticks.
“Feel better?”
“Fuck no.” He glared at Aidan, who glared back at him. “Should I?”
“Save your energy. We’re gonna need it.”
If only he knew how to use it. Mirren parked his ass on the concrete and leaned against the wall, trying to make sense of the latest Penton disaster—a stupid, cheap flyer posted all over town during daylight hours. Only Glory had kept the fallout from being worse.
That pile of flyers on the floor provided proof—like they needed any at this point—that Penton was under attack.
Except the attackers were ghosts, smoke, invisible, and Mirren didn’t know how the fuck to fight them. Or how to go after them when he didn’t know who or what they were.
“The others will be here soon, so we need a strategy.” Aidan hopped on one of the big wooden thread spools they’d left in the room, his boot-clad feet dangling off the sides. He’d abandoned his business clothing for jeans and a sweater, and his hair was growing out again—he looked like Aidan, in other words.
Before Glory had arrived at 8:00 p.m. with flyers in hand, Mirren had almost finished equipping the room with punching bags, weights, cycles—basic gym equipment that Will had bought in Columbus and had shipped to their storage space yesterday. Nik had helped Mark pick it up.