The Vampire's Pastry Chef (ONC 2022)

5 - It's Just a Cinnamon Roll

Corbin watched Ms Milford go, idly toying with the white pastry box. He glanced down at the logo affixed to the top: a red oak leaf with "Autumn's Desserts" written beneath it. Corbin's lips curled in amusement; a little on the nose, but memorable.

He reached for a third cinnamon roll, frowning slightly as he realized that there was only one more left. While Ms Milford's token of apology was appreciated, it wasn't necessary. Had she believed him so fickle as to fire her over a misunderstanding? He hadn't introduced himself, so it was understandable that she would have no idea what he looked like.

Corbin ...

He twisted the cinnamon roll between his fingers, staring at the thick, sweet icing that coated the top and sank into every nook and cranny. The academic part of him knew that she meant nothing by it, but the man buried deep inside heard something entirely different.

Corbin took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. The last time he had heard a woman speak his name with that sort of breathless tone had been the year after the War of Independence when he was eighteen. He sought to court Miss Margaret Southland, daughter of a wealthy Philadelphian merchant who had run guns for General Washington. Margaret stood on her porch, calling out his name as her father threw him off their property, calling him too poor to be a good fit for his daughter.

God, he hadn't thought of Margaret in centuries. Corbin studied the cinnamon roll, then looked at the closed door to his study. Since that day, no woman—human or Knowing—had managed to elicit that sort of reaction in him.

It's just a cinnamon roll, you fool, Corbin chastised himself, polishing off the third pastry as if he hadn't eaten in a week. Yes, Ms Milford was attractive—and a damned good baker—but she was in his employ and would be gone within two weeks once this stupid party was over. She was also human.

The door to his study opened and Neville entered. "What do you have there?" his friend asked, dropping his heavy body into the chair Ms Milford had just vacated.

"A peace offering from Ms Milford," Corbin explained, reaching for a sleek insulated mug on his desk. He took a long pull on the straw, letting the warm blood flow down his throat. He had to finish this before he could have what he really wanted—coffee.

Neville laughed, a deep, booming sound. "Is that what she ran off to do? Lord, Corbin, you should've seen the woman—she was so terrified that she had offended you."

Corbin snorted softly and smiled. "Yes, she was quite apologetic."

Neville reached for the box and peered inside. "How many of these have you had already?"

"Three." Corbin took another pull from the straw and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You ate three in less than five minutes?"

"They're quite good," Corbin replied, folding his arms atop his desk.

Neville chuckled. "Apparently." He pushed the box back. "I was going to ask for the last one, but I have a feeling you might bite me if I do."

"She said she'd make me more."

"I think I can wait. You seem to be enjoying them too much."

Corbin needn't be told twice. He grabbed the fourth and last cinnamon roll. "So, any news on the Fallen?"

Neville's amused expression immediately sobered. "I put in a call to Nastya Romanova's assistant in Brattleboro, just in case he decided to jump the border and go north."

"So, no news," Corbin said, closing the top of the little white take-out box.

"No news," Neville repeated.

It was best if the creature traveled north. The Grand Duchess was vicious when it came to Fallen, ever since one disguised himself as a holy man and attempted to bring down the Russian Empire.

Soft, classical music chimed from a spot on Corbin's desk. Glancing at Neville, he reached for his cell phone. "Hello, Master."

"Corbin." The soft, genderless voice layered with an ancient and forgotten accent floated to Corbin's ear. "How fares the event planning?"

Across the desk, Neville raised an inquiring eyebrow. Corbin shrugged in response. "Proceeding smoothly, Master."

This was an unusual call. Corbin could count on both hands the number of times he'd personally spoken to his master over the last two hundred years. Once ascended and sent off into the world, contact between minor Knowing such as Corbin and their masters was limited—as long you regularly contributed research and didn't expose the society.

"Good, good."

Corbin's brow furrowed. Now that he had his master on the phone, perhaps he could plead his case. "There have been reports of a Fallen in my territory," he began carefully.

"Indeed?"

Taking a deep breath, Corbin pressed his case. "I would like to be released from my duties as host to persue the Fallen, Master."

There was a long pause; even with Corbin's enhanced hearing, he could not hear a single breath from the master. His foot began to tap on the floor as he wondered if he had said something egregious.

Finally, the master spoke. "The event will take place as planned, Corbin. You are more than capable enough to handle a challenge on two fronts."

Corbin grit his teeth, incisors nicking the inside of his lip.

"This event is important to our people, Corbin," the master continued softly. "It strengthens the bonds between us and allows for lively discussions that will hopefully benefit all of mankind."

All of which could be done over the Internet, Corbin noted. But to say that to the master would be inadvisable. Masters were old—old beyond imagination. They did not perceive time the same way others did.

"Yes, Master," Corbin replied, defeated.

"Good," the ancient being said, seemingly satisfied with Corbin's compliance. "I will check in with you later to see how things are progressing."

Before Corbin could say anything more, the line went dead. Pursing his lips, Corbin placed the phone screen-side down atop a stack of papers.

"He called just to check up on the party?" Neville mused, crossing one leg over the other. As a Knowing servant, he had many of the same gifts as Corbin, but without the healing ability, fangs, and need to consume blood every three days. At least Corbin didn't have to repeat the short conversation back to his friend.

"Yes." Corbin rubbed at his wrist reflexively. "I don't know why."

Neville shrugged. "Maybe because it's your first event?"

"Could be. But I don't see why it's so damned important." He'd been to several over the last few decades and always came home bored. The other Knowing were mainly interested in philosophy and predicting the future of mankind. Most of them lived in a meditative state, stirring only to drink and attend to their estates. Corbin liked to paint, garden and admire nature—the other reasons why Merchant Southland found him unworthy of his daughter.

"Think of it this way, Corbin. Once you hold this party, you won't have to worry about doing it again for another century or two."

Corbin's lips twitched wryly. "How comforting," he replied dryly, eating the last cinnamon roll. Maybe he would take some interest in the actual planning—if he could keep getting sweets like this.

Neville chuckled and rose, leaving his boss to his papers.