Paul

"See you then," I say with a smile as I click the phone off. "Really? It tastes okay? You wouldn't lie?"

"Nope. No reason to. It's the best sauce I've had in months. Stephanie can't quite get the same combination of flavors as you do."

Inside, I feel elation. I'm following the same tried-and-true recipes I'd memorized years ago while working in Los Angeles. For some odd reason, they all taste as they should now, and not how they have been since my change. "Interesting," I say while sniffing the jar of crushed red peppers in my hand. "These smell slightly different than the ones in my collection."

"Your collection?" Bob asks between dipping yet another chunk of bread into the simmering pot.

"Yeah. Chefs often have their own spices-some of them even pre-mixed in private. You recall that 'Bam!' guy a few years back, right?" He nods and I continue, "Lots of famous chefs do it. Sell the formula to their combinations and launch their own line of products."

"You ever dream of that?" the husky groundskeeper asks while grabbing another dinner roll.

I shake my head in the negative, as I stir the pasta in a large pot of boiling water. "Nah, the spotlight isn't for me. Especially now after..."

Understanding dawns on Bob's face. "After you became a dad?"

I laugh, slapping the grounds keeper on the back. "Gotta love you, man."

Bob shrugs. The timer sounds on the microwave and the pot-bellied man rummages on the metal shelf behind us for a colander. "The pasta's done. I'm having a bowl."

The urge to give in and taste the sauce overwhelms me, the rich smell of tomatoes blends seamlessly with the heady bouquet of fresh Italian seasonings. Before thinking too much about it, I scoop a small amount onto a clean spoon and sample my endeavors.

"Perfect," I say.

Bob looks at me with a note of alarm crossing his features. "Should you have done that?"

Spasms ripple across my middle and my stomach heaves. "Probably not." I rush to the nearest trash can in anticipation. Trying to still my clenching organs, I take a deep breath and attempt to think of something else other than puking. It lasts for a moment before I hurl the sauce back up.

The retching wracks my frame, engraving, yet again, a very important lesson on my brain: No solid food. Thankfully, the spasms subside when the sauce is expelled, my earlier blood meal already digested.

"Dude man, I don't think that was a good idea."

I wipe a shaking hand across the back of my mouth. "Gee, Bob, you think?"

He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder; my momentary indignity of heaving turns into a bonding moment among buds.

"But seriously, this sauce is excellent. What do you think the difference is?"

"Having not sampled my earlier attempts, it's hard to say. How about we try another dish?"

While preparing the ingredients for a hearty meat lasagna, hoping to use some of the big cauldron of sauce I didn't eff up, I notice movement beyond the counter. A newcomer has entered the dining room. It's the only vampire not out on the hunt - Vikram.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" I call from my place behind the serving island.

His slight frame jerks and he whips around in his seat. The distinct waft of incense and strong spices assails my nose. "Oh, yes. Thank you. I'll take a masala chai if you have it, with sweetened condensed milk?"

My gut clenches at his request for spiced tea. Guess over the years you build up the ability to digest anything remotely resembling a solid, and condensed milk lies right on the border in my opinion. While the thought of mixing sustenance into the tea and creating a god-awful drink revolts me, I do my duty and ask, "With blood, sir?"

The question seems to agitate him and he shakes his head sharply.

"Yes, sir. I'll have it ready for you in ten."

He nods and then stares out the window into the hot tub grotto, lost in his thoughts.

After the kettle boils, I steep the tea and pour the thickened milk into a tiny creamer carafe. The sickly sweet aroma of the milk clogs my nasal passages, threatening to bring another heave from my stomach. I clamp down on my senses, trying to rein in my reactions so I don't embarrass myself and puke all over a guest. I'm betting it might get me removed from kitchen duty faster than my recent bad cooking will.

"Here you are, sir," I say with smile, hoping I don't look as green as I feel.

Vikram doesn't even spare a glance my way, just nods while I place the tray on his table. Quirky fellow. I take my leave and head back to the kitchen, eager to get back to making my lasagna.

Bob sits in a stool near my workstation, a scrap of paper held in his meaty hands with a blunt pencil poised above. "Mind if I take notes on what you add? I'd like to learn how to make it."

My heart swells at the compliment he's unknowingly given me. "I'd be honored. Just don't sell it and take all the credit." I toss him a wink to show I'm joking and set to work.

Performing the task of layering the boiled noodles, cheeses, various cooked ground meats and sauce, brings me back to the simple joy of cooking. The spices fly as I get into a groove, calling each step out in turn to the rapt Bob. Maybe I can balance all the things from my past with this freaky new undead existence-well, all except for the normal sampling of dishes.

"Smells good," a gravelly voice sounds from the direction of the dining room. I look up and meet the hazel-eyed good nature of Vivian's servant, Jon. "I think you may have finally got it right, you blood-sucking fool." He grins from ear to ear. "Good job, Paul."

The cascade of pride I feel has me hoping I don't eff up my next time on shift. "Thanks."

"What's with the creepy thin guy?" he whispers, possibly attempting to not offend the guest with his observations. "Smells like he bathed in a vat of patchouli."

I smile, realizing he's nailed the same scent I picked up before. "Meditation?" I raise my shoulder, "I don't know." Vikram must hear us, but he's still staring out the window, his tea untouched.

"Save me some of the sauce you're making, okay?" He cranes his head over the counter and spies the lasagna, too. "Oh, and a dish of that as well?" Jon doesn't head into the main building much to eat and on the occasions when his visits used to coincide with my shift he would usually request a take-away serving.

"It's the least I can do when you lent two of your dogs to Bunny and the kids for the week. They love the company and I'm grateful for the added security while the rogue is loose."

"No problem, man. You'd do the same for me if the situation were reversed."

I nod, not sure what protection I could have offered him when I was an overweight cook, except maybe save him from getting drunk in the resort bar by drinking his beers for him. Now that I'm undead, there are a slew of new possibilities on how I could help him if he ever needed it.

Jon leans his neck to one side and series of pops sounds in the room. "Damn. I'm stiff. I need to get some rest soon." He glances at his watch. "Shit, it's still well over an hour 'til we meet." He cracks his neck on the other side. "I'm off to try and chill for a bit."

The powerful man lopes off with a farewell nod of his head and meanders back through the dining room.

"So how long do I cook it in the oven and at what temp?" Bob asks, as if Jon never even stopped by. He's studious in his note taking; I'll give him that.

"Cover in foil first. Then fifty minutes at 350 degrees. Take the foil off and let it brown a little near the end."

Out if the corner of my eye, I notice our guest staring in a new direction. Something appears off with him, but I can't tell what. I think I'll mention it to Vivian when the seethe gathers. Vikram slinks from his table and heads out after Jon.