The protection ward Garrick created looked like a simple silver bracelet.

  "That's it?" I asked, turning the smooth metal band over in my hands. We were back at the Augustine, sitting in our room while Garrick explained what he'd spent the last six hours creating. "A bracelet?"

  "Not just any bracelet." Garrick took it back, and I watched as faint runes appeared along its surface. They glowed softly before fading back to plain silver. "It's inscribed with protective sigils from seven different magical traditions. Tibetan wards against spiritual attack. Norse runes for physical protection. Celtic knots for resilience. And a few others I picked up from various friends over the years."

  "What does it actually do?"

  "Several things. First, it makes you harder to feed on. Not impossible—a determined vampire could still bite you, but their saliva won't produce the same euphoric effect. You'll feel pain instead of pleasure, which gives you a fighting chance to struggle or call for help." He held it up to the light. "Second, it provides some resistance to mental intrusion. If that vampire tries to project thoughts into your mind, the ward will... muffle them, I guess you'd say. Like putting a pillow between you and a speaker."

  "Will it break the bond?"

  "No. That requires the vampire's death, as Konstantin explained. But it'll make the bond less exploitable. Less dangerous." He handed it back to me. "Put it on. It needs to attune to your aura, which takes a few hours."

  I slipped the bracelet onto my left wrist. It was cool against my skin, and for a moment I felt that now-familiar sensation of pins and needles spreading up my arm. Then it faded, leaving just the weight of the metal.

  Garrick’s usual approach of ‘doing without testing’ brought up an immediate concern. "How will I know if it's working?"

  "You'll know if you get attacked again and don't immediately surrender to vampire euphoria." Garrick's expression was serious. "Mac, this isn't foolproof. It's not armor. It's just... insurance. An edge. You still need to be careful."

  "Careful is my middle name," I said with WAY more confidence than I thought.

  "Your middle name is Eugene. You told me when you were drunk on that Morpheseum potion."

  "We agreed never to speak of that,” I said, knowing full well this was arming him for a future jab at me. Though…I couldn’t really blame him.

  Despite all of the craziness right now, the upcoming competition, the investigation, being linked to a ghost napping vampire...This felt good. This was a partnership. Looking out for each other and covering blind spots, trying to keep each other alive in a world that would have no problem killing us if we weren’t careful.

  "So," Garrick said, pulling out a notebook. "Let's talk about vampire cuisine. What do you know?"

  I shrugged. "Blood-based dishes. Heavy flavors. Nothing with garlic—"

  "Common misconception, actually. Vampires can eat garlic. It's just uncomfortable for them if not prepared properly. It kinda makes their enhanced senses go haywire with too much sensory input. Like how loud noises are annoying to humans but don't actually hurt us." He flipped through his notes. "But you're right about heavy flavors. Vampires experience taste differently than humans. More intensely in some ways, more dulled in others. They need strong, bold flavors to really taste anything.

  "Sorta like ghosts," I said, remembering my dinner with the Ghost Council.

  "Similar biology, different cause. Ghosts can't physically consume food, so they need intensity to perceive anything. Vampires can eat, but their physiology is oriented toward blood consumption. Everything else is... optional. Background noise."

  Over the next hour, Garrick walked me through vampire dietary peculiarities. Foods that enhanced or dulled certain flavors. Textures that vampires found appealing versus repulsive. The importance of presentation was another big component of this whole thing. Vampires, especially the old ones, valued aesthetic beauty almost as much as taste.

  "And there's a human judge?" I asked.

  "Always. Samuel's court includes mortal servants as well. People who've sworn loyalty in exchange for protection, money, or access to vampire society. The human judge ensures that any dishes prepared for them are actually edible, not just vampire-optimized monstrosities."

  I rolled my eyes. "So I need to cook food that works for both vampires and humans. Perfect. No pressure. Then again…it’s nothing I haven’t done before cooking for a corporate party. You should see the list of restrictions that came with the last one Javi and I did…"

  The next two days blurred together in a haze of planning and preparation. I couldn't actually cook ahead of time. The competition required us to work with mystery ingredients, Iron Chef style, but I could strategize. I visited the Supernatural Market again, talked to vendors about what was in season, what would be available. I cornered Samuel's superstar chef, my competitor—Marek Jankowski—in a café and bought him coffee in exchange for advice.

  Marek was exactly what I expected from a two-Michelin-star chef: confident to the point of arrogance, precise in his movements, and absolutely certain of his superiority. He was maybe forty, with the kind of weathered handsomeness that came from years in professional kitchens. His hands bore scars from knives and burns, badges of honor in the culinary world. He had no problem giving me pointers, because I’m sure he figured there was no way in hell I could beat him…that just made me more determined.

  "You're the American," he said, sipping his espresso with the critical eye of someone evaluating whether it met his standards. "The one who plans to compete with me."

  "I'm the American who's going to try his best and probably lose spectacularly," I corrected. "But I'd like to at least make it interesting. What do vampires here actually like to eat?"

  He studied me for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiled. "You're honest. I respect that. Most competitors would pretend confidence they don't possess." He set down his cup. "Vampires in Prague appreciate tradition mixed with innovation. They've eaten for centuries, don’t forget—longer, in some cases. They're bored with purely traditional dishes. But they also don't want gimmicks or tricks. They want familiar flavors elevated. Surprised without being shocked."

  "That's... actually helpful,” I admitted, “Thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet. I'm still going to destroy you." But there was humor in his voice. "The ingredient selection will be announced when we arrive. You'll have access to everything in Samuel's underground kitchen, which is, I should mention, better equipped than most professional restaurants. Use that to your advantage."

  "Any instant turnoffs? Things vampires hate?"

  "Overly sweet desserts. Their palates can't handle that much sugar, it actually makes them nauseous, can you believe that? A vampire with a tummy ache. Also avoid anything too delicate or subtle. If you're going to use an ingredient, use it boldly. Half-measures read as incompetence to vampire judges."

  By the third day, I had a rough strategy. I couldn't plan specific dishes without knowing the available ingredients, but I could plan an approach. Bold flavors. Traditional techniques with modern twists. Presentation that honored vampire aesthetic sensibilities. And at least one dish

  that transcended the vampire/human divide…ya know, something that would remind them that food, at its core, was about connection and shared experience.

  Also, I needed to investigate during the competition. Watch for suspicious behavior. Try to identify which vampire was the masked kidnapper. That was the real motivation behind all of this, and the reason Samuel was holding this little get together and contest to begin with.

  The phantom cravings had been getting worse. Twice a day, sometimes three times, I'd feel that flash of euphoria and the remembered sensation of the vampire's bite. It lasted maybe five seconds before fading, but those five seconds were hell. Because part of me wanted it to continue. Part of me wanted to seek out the vampire who'd fed on me and offer my neck willingly.

  The bracelet helped. Garrick said the ward was suppressing about seventy percent of the bond's effect. Without it, the cravings would be constant, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

  With it, they were just awful.

  ---

  The underground arena was unlike anything I'd ever seen.

  Samuel's estate extended far deeper than I'd realized. Past the lounge, past the offices and private chambers, there was an entire subterranean complex. The arena itself was maybe fifty feet across, circular, with stadium seating rising up on all sides. Torch light flickered from sconces, casting dramatic shadows. The whole setup felt like something from ancient Rome, a gladiatorial combat reimagined for the modern age.

  Except instead of fighting to the death, we'd be cooking.

  The kitchen stations were set up on opposite sides of the arena floor. Professional equipment, gleaming and new. Massive prep tables. Ovens, stovetops, every tool a chef could want. And between the stations, a series of refrigerated displays showing the available ingredients.

  I walked closer, cataloging what I saw. Beef, duck, venison, rabbit. Vegetables of every variety. Herbs and spices in quantities that would make a professional kitchen jealous. And—

  "The blood section," Marek said, appearing beside me. He was already dressed in his chef's whites, pristine and pressed. "Fresh from this morning. Multiple types, multiple ages. Bovine, porcine, deer, even some more exotic varieties."

  I stared at the containers of blood. Some were bright red, some were darker, and some almost black with age. They were kept at specific temperatures, labeled with dates and sources. This was ingredient selection at a level I'd never experienced.

  "This is insane," I muttered.

  "This is Prague vampire high society." Marek clapped me on the shoulder. "Good luck, Mac. You're going to need it."

  The arena was filling up. Vampires filed in through multiple entrances, taking seats in the stadium arrangement. I recognized some from the lounge, the usual opium smokers and the vintage blood drinkers. Others were new, dressed in formal attire that ranged from modern suits to clothing that looked straight out of a museum.

  They were all watching us. Assessing. Judging before we'd even started.

  Konstantin entered with a group of other vampires, all of them carrying themselves with that particular authority that marked the powerful. He caught my eye briefly, nodded once, then took a seat in the second row.

  And then Samuel arrived.

  The entire arena went silent. Every vampire stood in a show of respect I hadn't really seen before. Samuel moved through the crowd like a king among subjects, acknowledging nods and bows with minimal gestures. He took the central seat in the front row, and only when he sat did everyone else sit.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," a voice boomed through the arena. I looked up and saw speakers mounted in the stone ceiling. Even ancient vampire stadiums had modern sound systems, apparently. "Welcome to tonight's culinary exhibition. Two chefs. Four courses. One victor."

  A vampire appeared in the center of the arena. They were tall, elegant, dressed in formal attire that suggested he was some kind of master of ceremonies. "Our competitors tonight: Marek Jankowski, two-time Michelin star recipient, master of Eastern European cuisine, chef to Prince Samuel himself." He gestured to Marek, who bowed to applause that was polite but not enthusiastic. They'd seen him cook before.

  "And our challenger: Mac Sullivan, Chef de Cuisine of The Crossroads Kitchen in Salem, Massachusetts. Diplomat, investigator, and apparently convinced he can cook for vampires." The MC's tone was amused. This was entertainment to them. A mortal who thought he could compete.

  I waved awkwardly. A few vampires laughed.

  "The rules are simple," the MC continued. "Four courses: appetizer, main course, after-dinner refreshment, and dessert. Each chef will prepare dishes suitable for both vampire and human palates. Our distinguished judges—" He gestured to a table set up in front of the first row, where three figures sat. Two vampires I didn't recognize, and one human woman who looked simultaneously terrified and honored to be here. "—will score each course. Highest total score wins."

  Then Samuel stood. The MC looked surprised—this apparently wasn't planned.

  "I will be joining the judges as a surprise fourth participant in the first round to kick things off," Samuel announced. "Both chefs were instructed to prepare for four, though only three were visible. Consider this... my contribution to tonight's drama."

  The crowd applauded. Samuel took the fourth seat at the judges' table, directly in the center.

  My heart sank. Cooking for Samuel. Being judged by Samuel. While trying to investigate his court for a vampire serial killer.

  This night just kept getting better.

  "Chefs, you may begin," the MC declared. "Your first course: appetizer. You have thirty minutes."

  I moved to my station on pure instinct, my mind racing through possibilities. Appetizer. Something impressive but not overwhelming. Something that would set the tone.

  My eyes landed on the beef section. High-quality cuts, beautifully marbled. And blood oranges in the fruit display. I figured their deep red flesh would work perfectly with the vampire aesthetic.

  Beef tartare. Classic, elegant, and I could execute it flawlessly even under pressure.

  I grabbed what I needed and started working. Dice the beef into perfect cubes that were small enough to be refined, large enough to maintain texture. Mix in minced shallots, capers, and just a touch of Dijon mustard. The blood orange gastrique would be key: I’d reduce the juice with sugar until it was syrupy and intense, that characteristic bitter-sweet flavor that blood oranges did so well. And, it would kinda look like blood, so, bonus?

  That's when I felt it.

  *Interesting choice,* a voice whispered in my mind. *The tartare. Classic. Safe. Are you capable of more, I wonder?*

  I nearly dropped my knife.

  The voice was male, cultured, with an accent I couldn't quite place. It sounded like the masked vampire's voice but... different. Less muffled. More clear.

  The bond. The vampire who'd fed on me was here. In this arena.

  I forced myself to keep working. Finish dicing the beef. Don't let them know you can hear them.

  *Your hands are shaking,* the voice observed. *Nervous? Or are you feeling it? The connection between us? I wonder if you even realize what I did to you.*

  My bracelet felt warm against my wrist. The ward was working, and the voice seemed distant, like Garrick had said. Like a speaker behind a pillow. But it was still there. Still invading my thoughts.

  I looked up at the judges' table, trying to see if I could identify which vampire was projecting. One of the two vampire judges, maybe? They were both watching me intently.

  *Look all you want,* the voice said, amused. *You won't find me so easily.*

  I plated the tartare. Small mounds of the beef mixture, garnished with microgreens and crispy fried shallots for texture. The blood orange gastrique drizzled in a quick swirl pattern. Simple. Elegant. Executed perfectly despite the voice in my head.

  The MC announced time, and servers appeared to collect our dishes. I watched as mine was distributed to the four judges, trying to see which vampire reacted when the plate arrived.

  They all tasted simultaneously. Professional. Giving nothing away.

  But Samuel's eyebrows rose slightly. The human judge actually smiled.

  "The Eternal Thirst," I'd named it when asked. Playing into the vampire aesthetic while keeping the dish grounded.

  Marek had done some kind of elaborate terrine. It had layers of different meats and vegetables pressed together, served with a port wine reduction. Beautiful. Technical. Exactly what you'd expect from a Michelin star chef.

  The judges conferred quietly. Then one of the vampire judges—a severe-looking woman—spoke into a microphone.

  "The challenger's dish was unexpected. Refined. The blood orange provided excellent flavor complexity without overwhelming the beef. We award this round to Mac Sullivan."

  The arena erupted in surprised applause. I'd won the first round.

  *Beginner's luck,* the voice said. *Let's see how you handle real pressure.*

  Thirty minutes for the main course. I wiped down my station, trying to think through the voice in my head.

  The vampire was here. Watching me. Possibly one of the judges, but I couldn't be sure. And they didn't know I could hear them—the bond was usually one-way, and I hoped Garrick’s bracelet was blocking my own terrified thoughts from entering their head and giving the game away.

  I could use this. Listen. Learn something that would help identify them.

  Duck breast. I'd do duck breast with a cherry-blood reduction. The duck in the refrigerated section had been perfect, nice and fatty, well-marbled. And the cherry-blood sauce would be a deliberate play on vampire themes while remaining sophisticated.

  I started working, searing the duck breast skin-side down to render the fat. The voice continued its commentary.

  *You're thinking too much. I can feel it. The bond works both ways when you're this close, you know. I feel your focus wavering. Your attention divided between cooking and trying to find me.* A pause. *It's making you sloppy.*

  I glanced at my duck. The skin was browning unevenly…I was getting distracted, and I hadn't rotated it properly.

  Damn it. I corrected, but the damage was done. The presentation wouldn't be as perfect as it should be. And presentation mattered to vampire judges.

  The cherry-blood reduction came together beautifully at least. It gave it all a dark, glossy, rich with flavor kind of look and (I hoped) taste. I plated the duck with roasted root vegetables, drizzled the sauce artistically, desperately trying to compensate for the uneven searing with excellent composition.

  "Sunrise Over the Carpathians," I called it. A reference to the sunrise vampires couldn't see, their eternal exile from daylight.

  *Poetic,* the voice mused. *But your execution faltered. I felt your fear. Your uncertainty. Delicious.*

  Marek's main course was technically flawless. Some kind of venison preparation with multiple components, each one perfectly executed. The plating looked like art.

  The judges tasted. Discussed. And this time, the verdict was clear.

  "The master chef's dish demonstrated superior technique and flavor balance," the severe vampire woman announced. "This round goes to Marek Jankowski."

  The voice in my head laughed softly.

  I tried to locate the source while the next course was announced. Scanned the front rows. The judges. The vampires sitting near Samuel (who had gone back to sitting in the front row to watch with the rest of the crowd..

  I noticed a vampire sitting directly to Samuel's right. Young-looking, maybe thirty in appearance. Dark hair and chiseled, noble features. He was sitting perfectly still. His eyes were closed, his hands folded in his lap. He was either bored out of his mind, meditating or—

  *Looking for me?* the voice asked. *Keep looking. It's entertaining.*

  The after-dinner refreshment course was announced. Twenty minutes. Something light but substantial enough to bridge between main course and dessert.

  I needed something that would stand out. Something that would tie for this round and keep me in the competition.

  And I needed something that represented what I actually believed about food.

  I surveyed the ingredients and an idea formed. Fusion cuisine. Eastern European meets American comfort food. Pierogi—traditional Polish dumplings—but filled with something unexpected. Barbecue pulled pork. Served with a tangy sauce that split the difference between traditional Polish toppings and American barbecue.

  "Bridge Between Worlds," I'd call it. Because food transcended boundaries. Living and dead. Vampire and human. Eastern and Western.

  I worked quickly, making the pierogi dough from scratch. While it rested, I prepared the filling—slow-cooked pork shoulder (there was a section of pre-prepared ingredients, thank god) mixed with a sauce I improvised from available ingredients. Tangy, sweet, with just enough heat.

  *Ambitious,* the voice commented. *But will the judges appreciate American comfort food? Or will they see it as beneath them?*

  I formed the pierogi, boiled them, then pan-fried them for texture. Plated them simply, with a small cup of additional sauce on the side.

  When the servers collected the dishes, I watched the judges' faces.

  The first vampire judge took a bite. His expression remained neutral, but he took a second bite. Then a third.

  The human judge looked like she might cry with joy.

  Marek had done something technically impressive and visually gorgeous—I couldn't even identify all the components—but the judges looked less enthusiastic.

  "Both dishes showed creativity and skill," the severe vampire announced. "However, the judges are split. This round is declared a tie."

  *Impressive,* the voice admitted. *You surprised them. Surprised me. Perhaps you're more interesting than I thought.*

  One course left. Dessert. And I was only half a point behind Marek.

  I could actually win this. Dessert. Thirty minutes. I needed something spectacular. I needed something that would make a statement and put me in position to overtake the lead and win this competition.

  My eyes landed on the chocolate section. Dark chocolate, the good stuff. And then—churros. Or rather, the ingredients to make churros. Cinnamon, sugar, dough.

  A deconstructed dessert. Playful but sophisticated. A churro "stake" driven through a chocolate torte "heart," with raspberry coulis as "blood."

  "The Last Stake," I'd call it. Playing with vampire mythology while delivering something delicious.

  I worked faster than I ever had. The torte came together quickly—dark chocolate, butter, eggs, a touch of espresso to enhance the chocolate flavor. While it baked, I made the churro dough and piped it into stake-like shapes. Fried them until golden, rolled them in cinnamon sugar.

  The raspberry coulis reduced to the perfect consistency—bright red and glossy to a sheen.

  *Clever,* the voice said. *Making light of what could kill us. Humanizing the monster. Very clever indeed.*

  But Marek was making something equally impressive. I could see him working with what looked like multiple chocolate components, some kind of sphere that he was carefully constructing.

  We both plated at the last second. Mine looked dramatic—the churro stake angled through the chocolate torte, raspberry blood pooling artistically. His looked like a work of art—a chocolate sphere that he cracked open at the judges' table to reveal multiple layers inside.

  The judges tasted and this time took longer to discuss than any previous round.

  Samuel came from the front row and personally tasted my dessert. Took another bite. Then tasted Marek's. He nodded to the judges and then sat back down in the front row.

  The severe looking vampire judge spoke. "Both desserts demonstrated exceptional creativity and execution. However, the master chef's technical precision and flavor complexity edge out the challenger's presentation. By half a point, this round goes to Marek Jankowski."

  The arena erupted in applause. Marek had won.

  I'd lost.

  But as I looked at the judges, I saw something unexpected. They were all smiling. Even Samuel. The human judge was standing, applauding enthusiastically.

  "An exceptional showing from both chefs," the MC announced. "But let us acknowledge the challenger, who came within half a point of defeating a master. Mac Sullivan, ladies and gentlemen!"

  The entire arena stood. Every vampire, every human servant, everyone. A standing ovation.

  For me. For trying. For making it close. I bowed, overwhelmed.

  *Congratulations,* the voice in my head said. *You exceeded expectations. That's... rare. Enjoy your moment, Mac Sullivan. You've earned it.*

  As the applause continued, I scanned the crowd again. Looking for anyone who seemed too interested, too focused.

  That's when I saw him again. The vampire sitting to Samuel's right. He was still seated while everyone else stood. Still had his eyes closed.

  But as I watched, his eyes flickered open for just a second. Met mine across the arena.

  Then closed again.

  And Konstantin, sitting in the second row, was staring at that same vampire. He caught my eye and mouthed two words: "We need to talk."

  The ovation continued, but I barely heard it.

  Because I understood now.

  The voice in my head. The vampire sitting next to Samuel, so still he looked like he was sleeping. The fact that he hadn't stood with everyone else.

  He wasn't bored or meditating. He was exhausted. Drained. Running on empty.

  Because he'd been awake for days. Active during both daylight and nighttime hours. Using trapped ghost energy to walk in the sun. I'd found the masked vampire.

  And he was sitting right next to Samuel.