Fangs and Fennel (The Venom Trilogy #2)(29)

I grimaced. “I have a feeling he’d take that an entirely different way.”

She laughed, stood, then walked to the door. “True, but that gutter mind has always been a part of him. You healed fast, expect to be hungry. And craving whatever your body needs to restore your reserves; don’t ignore it, no matter how strange it might seem.”

I didn’t like the sounds of that. My belly grumbled, and I clutched it with both hands.

Damara left me alone in the room, and I quickly dressed. I heard her go out the front door, her heartbeat fading as she walked away.

As I went downstairs, the house was eerily quiet. No Sandy, no Beth. My eyes watered at the thought of the two girls who were my friends fighting on Theseus’s side. I didn’t want to fight them, not because I was afraid, but because I didn’t want to hurt them. The Drakaina in me, I could almost feel her nod. They were tough, but I was tougher, which meant if we faced one another, they would get hurt. I didn’t want that.

I listened for Tad’s heartbeat, but he wasn’t here either. Dahlia would be in the basement sleeping for another couple of hours.

I stepped into the kitchen, and a sigh slid out of me. While it wasn’t a total disaster, glass from the window littered the floor, and the clean dishes from the rack were spread everywhere. Getting a broom, I swept the floor. The scent of licorice floated through the air, the same smell I’d picked up on the night before. It had to be Santos. Just like Remo, his opponent had a signature scent, one I would not be forgetting anytime soon. Licorice was one of those flavors that cloyed in the mouth when used too liberally. I had a funny feeling that Santos’s presence would be the same.

I followed up the sweep by mopping the floor, as if I could erase everything that had happened the night before. Next came the dishes, and from there I slid into baking mode, pulling a recipe book off the shelf and laying it on the table.

My belly rumbled as I stood in front of the fridge. “All right. Eating first.”

I opened the door and stared at my options. There was a pack of raw chicken drumsticks I’d pulled out of the freezer to be cooked for dinner the night before, a couple jars of pickles, milk . . . my hands were reaching for the chicken before I was even cognizant of the need for meat. I grabbed the three-pound package and put it on the counter. I grabbed the jug of milk next and set it next to the chicken. Protein in two forms. I stripped the plastic off the chicken and took the cap off the milk.

“I could deep-fry them, throw them in a batter,” I said as I pulled the first drumstick out and held it up to my mouth. The smell of raw meat normally turned my stomach. This time? Not so much. My saliva glands went wild, and I bit down on the chicken, snapping the bone in half. I didn’t chew.

I swallowed it whole. And the next, and the next, until the package was empty. I grabbed the milk jug, almost a full two gallons, and put it to my mouth. The cold, fresh milk slid down my throat. I slammed the empty jug down and stared.

“Holy crap,” I whispered, then looked around. I wasn’t sure if I felt bad about saying “crap,” or the unreal meal I’d just had.

The snake in me felt like it curled up, content with the food I’d literally swallowed whole. I cleared the empty jug and chicken packaging off the counter and into the garbage, then wiped the surface down.

I hadn’t even tasted the chicken. Maybe I would get salmonella.

I grimaced. Even I knew that wasn’t likely.

“God, I am a monster,” I said to the kitchen, as though the space would respond. I paced the small room, my mind racing almost as fast as my heart. There was only one way to make myself feel better. Time to bake.

I knew Tad liked chocolate chip cookies, so I made those first, the recipe memorized. I added extra chocolate and threw in some puréed pumpkin for good measure. He wouldn’t even taste the pumpkin, but it gave the cookies a fluffy, light consistency, and it was a sneaky way of getting him to eat his vegetables. Just one of my baking secrets.

I smiled to myself, panic and fear easing as I moved through the kitchen, my mind floating in that state of bliss only baking brought me. After the cookies, I made meringues in strawberry and lemon, scraped together a peanut butter–caramel cheesecake, and then whipped up a batch of baklava. No problem. The time passed, hours falling away in the rhythm of whipping cream, measuring ingredients, recalling recipes, and checking the oven.

Somewhere in the midst of it all, the sound of the front door clicking open shot through the peace. I froze in the middle of pouring the honey syrup over the pan of baklava, fear slicing through the happy place I’d been in. I grabbed a rolling pin and a large pot from the stove. I gripped them tight, ready to fight. “Who’s there?”

“Just me, sis, and you are baking, and I love you to pieces!” Tad shouted, running into the kitchen, sliding to a stop. His green eyes lit on the chocolate chip cookies, and he snatched one with each hand. “You are the best.”

“Tad, where have you been?” I tried to soften my tone, but with everything that had happened, I’d been worried about him. What if Santos had gone after him too? Or worse, Theseus?

He stopped midchew to talk around the mouthful of cookie. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve got my own place; I’ve had it since I was turned, you know. I’m not rooming here with my sister.”

“Dahlia’s here,” I pointed out.