Chomp

I hadn’t had a full day off in so long, I almost forgot what normal people did with their time.

Well, maybe normal wasn’t the right word for it. I supposed a lot had changed in the eleven years since Yacob and the other vampires came to light, and not just for soldiers. The civilians had been just as affected, if not more; at least we knew what to expect.

Curfew, for starters, was new for them.

Anyone without military authorization caught outside after sun hours was arrested and questioned rather harshly. That in and of itself had scared most people away from the large cities, so places that used to have millions of people now only had thousands.

Public executions—weird gladiator-style ones—had unsurprisingly made a comeback. They helped to keep the people entertained and focused on who the real enemy was. People of all colours, sizes, and creeds stood together to watch weakened vampires face off against a steroid-pumped soldier with a Holy Weapon inside of a steel cage.

It had replaced the large downtown square, bringing everyone together.

After a while, the executions became a bit mundane for me, though many still flocked to them. It was like the new monster truck rally every Saturday. Unfortunately, I didn’t even have the option on a Tuesday, so I decided to be as productive as possible on my day off and go grocery shopping.

The market was sparse of both food and people. The shopkeeper watched over me like a hawk from behind her Plexiglas cubicle as if I was pocketing cauliflower left and right. Not that there was any cauliflower in here anymore; fresh fruits and veggies were getting harder and harder to come by as people tried their best to avoid the cities; some had taken to growing their own in the meagre gardens they had, but it was never enough. I settled for a few boxes of crackers, some flour, and a frozen shank of some unidentified animal that I hoped was beef.

As she recounted my change for the third time—god forbid I was a penny short in this economy—I realized just how boring civilian life was. It was hardly noon, and I was already yawning. Somehow, buying groceries and being pleasant to people on the streets took more out of me than killing monsters, training new recruits, and practicing exercise regimes.

“You’re short a dollar,” the woman sneered through the holes in the glass. I rolled my eyes. Sure I was. The woman had skimped me close to five dollars; if anything, she owed me money.

I dug in the pocket of my jeans and pulled out another bill and slammed it on the counter. “Keep the change,” I snarled, grabbing the plastic bag with my stuff in it.

As I walked through the door and onto the road, another yawn overcame me; really, it was getting ridiculous. I glanced up and down the street to see what my options were. A lot of the former shops had been boarded up, abandoned for years, but a small café across the street seemed as though it was occupied. It had two small cast iron table sets on the stone patio in the front, at least; I figured if they hadn’t been stolen by now, chances were there was someone in there.

Crossing the street and almost getting hit by a car—the city had lost almost seventy percent of its population, but New Yorkers still had something against pedestrians—I peaked in the window.

The shop was a bit cramped, but it looked cozy. It was the traditional café that I was used to seeing, save for the two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves for walls. The wooden shelves were packed to the brim with hundreds of tomes of all varying colours and sizes. I grinned; that was the kind of place conducive to getting coffee and relaxing.

When I hopped through the door, a little bell rang, echoing throughout the store. I approached the counter, glancing at the front display case that held pastries and then at the menu board. Six different flavours of coffee, twelve different teas; I was impressed.

How had this place gone under my radar?

“Hello!” a chipper voice chimed from behind me. I whipped around, slightly startled, to see a tall man approaching wearing a green apron. The green seemed to bring out some weird flecks in his gold eyes as he smiled brightly. “How can I help you?”

I smiled. “Aren’t you on the wrong side of the counter?” I asked, pointing at him.

He returned the smile, albeit for an embarrassed one, and adjusted his black, thick-framed glasses. “I suppose so. But I’m still trying to alphabetize that second shelf over there. New shop, you see.”

He made his way over to the other side of the counter and stopped only when he was directly in front of me. “So are you a coffee or tea kind of person?”

“I think I might be a black Arabian coffee and about eight creampuffs kind of woman,” I replied, eyeing the pastries again. “Haven’t had those in forever. I thought they stopped importing them.”

He nodded, smiling as he reached for a bag of Arabian grounds. Placing it and a French press on the counter, he started scooping the dark grounds into it. “They did,” he admitted. “But they haven’t stopped importing flour and all that, and my daughter really enjoys cooking. So it works out for both you and her.”

“Does it ever,” I sighed.

When was the last time I had a creampuff? It had to have been at least eight years, and it certainly wasn’t for lack of wanting one. I waited patiently as he made the coffee, scooped up the puffs and placed them on a small plate. “So you said it’s a new shop, huh? Explains why I haven’t come across it. How is business treating you so far in this city of abandonment?”

As I took a sip of the coffee he handed me and waited for an answer, I hoped it was treating him spectacularly. The hot, bitter liquid stung my lips only the way love could.

He nodded. “Well, somewhat new. I suppose we technically opened last month, though as you can see by the state of those shelves, it’s been slow-going. But the food and coffee are more important, so I’m told.”

“So you’re told?” I asked before taking a bite of a creampuff. Oh god, it was heaven! The cream was smooth, cool, and fresh, but the flakey pastry was tantalizingly warm and sweet. The perfect balance.

“Mhm,” he replied, smiling slightly.

He ducked to the side briefly and pulled a picture frame over to me. The photograph was of two people; the man was holding up a little girl of about seven under what looked like a maple tree. Her smile was enormous, and it looked as though the photographer had caught her mid-laugh. The picture didn’t look like it had been taken that long ago, judging by what the café owner looked like now.

“She may be small, but Izzie probably knows more about this business than I do,” he continued, smiling slightly.

“Well if she bakes creampuffs like these,” I said, taking my second bite; it took everything I had not to devour them all in one go. “She definitely has the potential to become a chef.”

He laughed. “I take it you like them?”

If I had enough cash on me, I probably would have bought them all. But he didn’t need to know that. “Oh my god, yes,” I moaned awkwardly, and all too loudly.

Suddenly, I felt my face go a little red. If the café owner thought it was weird, he didn’t say anything; then again, judging by the pastries, he probably heard all kind of orgasm sounds when people ate here. Regardless, I was extremely appreciative that there was no one else here.

“I mean… Yes. I do,” I whispered, looking down at the counter to avoid his eyes. My hand felt around the plate for another creampuff that I quickly popped into my mouth.

“Tell you what,” the café owner said after a moment of awkward silence. “If you want to come back here again sometime, we can make a whole batch for you.”

My head snapped up rather quickly. Boy better not have been messing with me and my creampuffs. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “You get your creampuffs, and I get a regular customer. It’s uhh... been a bit tough in this neighbourhood, if you can imagine.”

Understandable; evidently, no one told this guy that people were moving from the city, not moving in for excellent pastries.

“Deal,” I said, offering my hand out.

He took it happily enough and shook it. His handshake was far firmer than his weak exterior suggested. “Deal. Adrian Bordeaux, by the way. We can have your first personal batch any time after today; just name a day and time.”

“Perfect!” I sighed happily, grabbing another one and popping it into my mouth. The sweet cream oozed in between the pastry and filled my mouth up with what could only be described as pure bliss. After chewing a bit, I swallowed. “Next week at five work for you?”

Adrian opened his mouth with what looked like an apologetic expression, but I interrupted him. “Don’t worry, I’m an officer,” I explained grinning. “If anyone gives you a hard time about the curfew, I’ll back you up. The name’s Agnes, by the way—Agnes Randt.”

The sun was still high in the sky when I unlocked the door to our apartment and let myself in. Light poured through the large living room window, hitting me square in the eyes and nearly blinding me. I hated to admit the possibility of him being right, but maybe Darius was onto something when he told me we should invest in a pair of curtains for the window. If the mood struck me, maybe I’d pay a visit to the linen store across town and get something to fix the situation.

I did my best to prepare some semblance of dinner. As it turned out, the meat I thought was beef was actually lamb; thankfully, not a bad thing, just unexpected. As I searched through our tiny pantry, I looked for something that would go with it, settling on some potatoes that had to be de-eyed.

Ever the homemaker, Darius was normally the one who looked after meals. He wasn’t a brilliant chef, but he certainly had a better track record when it came to not setting food on fire.

He was a perfect oh-for-six.

Thankfully, dinner went off without a hitch. The potatoes seemed a little bland without butter—I did the best I could with the salt and fake milk we had—and the lamb could have used a little more seasoning, but it was edible. After placing the remaining portion in a Tupperware for my fiancé, I decided to watch a little bit of TV.

As per usual, the news was filled with more stories on attacks. Vampires lashing out at people, attacking them even in broad daylight. Another couple of school closures, many more stores leaving. Burning corpses as protest. Religious groups banding together to both take in those in need as well as taking up arms. Children screaming in the streets. All in all, it was pretty damn depressing.

The only good thing about this city now were those damn cream puffs.

“Wow, you must have won the lottery. What’s with the massive grin on your face?”

I snapped back to reality to see Darius locking the door behind him. I didn’t know how long I had been watching this soap opera of a news station, but I suspected it was far too long.

“Hey, you,” I said nonchalantly, sitting upright on the couch to get a better glance at him.

“How was your day off?” He held a white plastic bag in one hand and he pulled open the fridge with the other. “Oh. You… cooked?” The man could kill five vampires in three minutes with a butter knife, yet his tone wavered when he saw the meal I left for him.

“Yes, I cooked,” I said indignantly, getting to my feet. “Got a problem with that?” I waltzed over to him in the kitchen and placed my arm akimbo.

He shrugged, removing a takeout box from the white bag and plopping it into the fridge. “I was planning on going to work within the next week, but I’m sure the morgue would be happy to explain my absence,” he quipped, the hint of a smile playing on his serious face. I planted a kiss on his warm lips.

“It’s a good thing you can cook, because you certainly can’t sweet talk for shit,” I hissed teasingly.

He shrugged. “I am but an imperfect man.”

“Well, Mister Imperfect,” I said, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him closer to me. His dark blue eyes widened only slightly. “Please tell me what you got up to today, because other than finding creampuffs, my day was completely boring—I need some semblance of action here.”

He placed his hands on my butt and raised his eyebrows. “Demanding, considering I haven’t had dinner yet, but I can definitely deliver you some action.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed him away. “Not what I meant.”

He sighed and leaned back against the counter, looking me up and down for a long while. “Couldn’t you just be a normal person and appreciate the day off?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. I frowned; his tone had lost its playful touch.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

Darius looked away from me, lips thin, but he didn’t answer.

“Hey,” I said, grabbing his jaw and pulling it back to face me. My eyes scanned his face over, drinking in the tiny hints of annoyance. “What’s up with you?”

“The council had quite a bit to say about you after the incident,” he replied stiffly, pulling my hand away from his stubbly jaw. “As your first offense, I’m surprised they even brought it up at the meeting we had today. But what else are those office-types good for, other than sitting on their fat bottoms and complaining?”

His words felt like a slap in the face. “They complained?” I spat incredulously. It was like hell freezing over, pigs flying, and creampuffs tasting awful, all in one poorly-wrapped gift. “Seriously?! Those asshats!”

“Don’t fly off the handle now,” he snapped irritably, plopping himself onto the couch. I watched him, seething, as he put his feet onto the coffee table. “It’s minor. They’ll probably just send you for a single day of training.”

“Probably?” I challenged, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah. I left the decision to the council,” he replied lazily. “Otherwise the whole objectiveness would be compromised. Promise you’ll play nice though, regardless?”

I grumbled, careful not to agree to anything.