The Taste of Home

Chapter 12

Weeks came and went until the last traces of winter left San Antonio like wisps of steam evaporating off a bowl of soup. In its place came a steadily growing warmth and swarms of college students stumbling down the boardwalk with booze in hand as they drank away their midterm exhaustion. Normally this would only mean Miguel would have to dodge a few drunken youngsters itching for a fight and the amber shrapnel they left in their wake, but tonight was different.

Tonight would be his first night cooking on his own.

He still wouldn't be manning an entire station by himself yet. That would come once he'd proven he could handle the pressure. For now, he just had to prove that he'd actually been learning. That training him hadn't been as pointless as trying to teach a pig calculus, as Yolanda had put it. That he and chupacabras like him belonged in more jobs than just pest control.

No pressure.

Alejandro practically skipped around the kitchen as he helped the other chefs with the evening's prep work. "Ready for your big day?"

"As ready as I can be," Miguel said. He'd grown so used to tending to the prey in the back that he missed the scuttling of the insects and the squeaking of the mice amidst the kitchen's constant commotion. One of the busboys would be handling that duty for the day and, if everything went well, they'd all take turns caring for the creatures so Miguel could spend more time in the kitchen.

"That's the spirit!" Ralph clapped him on the back. "You'll do fine."

"And if you do screw up, we've got a fire extinguisher handy," Yolanda said. She carved her aspic as if she was imagining the knife sinking into Miguel's back with each stroke. "Although it will take longer to take care of you since the trash won't be picked up until Tuesday."

Alejandro rolled his eyes but refused to let the smile leave his face as he ushered Miguel to the entrée station. "Mr. Kaminski wants you to handle the blood sausage today," he explained. "I'll be right here if you need anything."

By the time the night's first customers arrived, Miguel's eyes burned from chopping onions. Bits of their papery skins stuck to his scales, and, try as he might, he couldn't stop the tears from leaking out of his eyes.

But the burning of his tear ducts was nothing compared to the burning in his fangs. His venom glands ached with hunger as he stirred the onions and herbs into the thick slurry of pig blood and fat.

Swallowing a warm trickle of venom, Miguel knew this was why Mr. Kaminski had assigned him this specific dish. Sure blood was a common ingredient in many of their recipes, but it was usually forced to share the spotlight. The duck blood soup had its delicate aroma of dried fruits. Spices drowned the blood cakes until they were hardly appetizing at all. For the blood sausage, the only things shielding Miguel from the sanguine scent were the sharpness of the onions and the delicate herbs that submitted to the blood's iron tang.

If he could resist that scent for the rest of the night, he could do anything.

"Have you been eating okay?" Alejandro asked.

Miguel startled out of his thoughts, accidentally smacking his spoon against the side of the pot. "Things have been hard for the pack lately, but I've been managing alright. Why?"

"Because it sounds like you've got Shamu in your stomach," Ralph said with a laugh.

It was only then that Miguel noticed the rumbling moans coming from his gut. He ducked his head and silently begged it to stop doing its best whale impression. "I guess I'm not used to spending so much time in here."