Carling unfolded a well-worn piece of paper and laid it on the polished granite countertop near the stove. She consulted the handwritten instructions that had been prepared for her by a human attendant.
Step one, make sure the wood stove has been lit and the burner is hot. Yes. Did she place the skillet on the burner for step two? She checked the list. No. Step two, spray the skillet with PAM. She did and then she set the skillet on the burner. Now add a few ounces of raw meat to the skillet. Stir with implement. She picked up the implement and considered. What is this thing called again? Ah yes, it is a spatula.
A sunny morning shone outside. The kitchen where Carling worked was a large foreign-feeling stone-walled area, with long wooden tables and granite counters, industrial-sized sinks, and a fireplace that was big enough to roast a pig in. Bright yellow sunshine spilled in from metal-paned windows. The kitchen was a peaceful quiet place without chattering sycophants populating it. She liked it much better now that it was nearly empty.
A small dog whined at Carling’s feet. Rhoswen sulked nearby, well away from the spill of sunshine. “I don’t understand why you insist on doing this,” Rhoswen grumbled. “We have cans of dog food that it loves. Quite good, expensive premium dog food. I checked personally with its vet.”
“I do not require you to understand,” murmured Carling. She peered at the organic material in the skillet. It had started to sizzle. The red flesh was turning white. “What are we cooking again?”
“Chicken,” Rhoswen said. “We are cooking chicken for incomprehensible reasons.”
“Yes,” Carling said.
She nudged the flesh around in the skillet. This is food. A warm scent filled the air. She sniffed it. Living creatures consider this scent aromatic, appetizing. They salivate, and their stomachs rumble.
The small dog barked.
Yes, and some of them yap.
The chicken must become white all the way through. It is okay if the outside becomes brown. In fact many creatures prefer it that way. With a sense of satisfaction, Carling removed the skillet from the heat. She used the implement to scrape the steaming material onto a plate for a tiny living creature.
She regarded the dog. It regarded her in return. She remembered the details from the vet’s report. The dog was a six-pound Orange Sable Pomeranian. It had an exploding puffball double coat of hair that was brown and sable, with a touch of cream in its ludicrous curl of a tail. It had bright button-black eyes and a foxy narrow muzzle with a button-black nose. When she gave it her attention, it stood on its hind legs and twirled. Such happiness and excitement over a thing called breakfast.
She checked the last step on her list of instructions. Wait until the meat is cool enough to consume safely before placing the plate on the floor.
She looked at the steaming material on the plate. She looked back at the dog. It gave her a thrilled canine grin, pink tongue lolling to one side as it hopped on hind legs and pawed at the air. She spoke a word filled with Power. For a moment the air around the chicken shimmered. When she touched a finger to the meat, it was perfectly cool. Ah, that was much better.
A bell tolled on the ocean side of the sprawling stone house.
Both she and Rhoswen lifted their heads to look toward the sound. She told Rhoswen, “Go let the sentinel in.”
The younger blonde Vampyre inclined her head and left the kitchen.
Carling twitched aside the hem of her black Egyptian cotton caftan as she crouched to set the plate of chicken in front of the dog. The next bit always puzzled her. She had witnessed many forms of greed over the centuries. But no matter how much the smell of the cooking chicken sent him into frenzy, when she set the plate of food in front of the dog, he always paused first to look at her before he fell on his meal to gobble it down.
Carling was a succubus, a Vampyre who could sense and feed off of emotions from living creatures. The little dog had emotions. They were bright colorful sparks that winked like fireflies. She knew what he felt when he gave her that look.
It was passionate gratitude.
Rhoswen returned after a few minutes. Carling looked up from the dog. He had finished his meal and draped himself across her bare feet. Rhoswen told her, “The Wyr is awaiting an audience with you in the great hall.”
Carling nodded. She nudged the sleepy animal off her feet and pushed through the kitchen’s double-swing doors before the dog could follow. Ignoring its complaining bark, she walked along the large silent flagstone-floored corridor to the great hall, the only sound a whisper of cloth as her caftan swirled around her ankles.