Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 772(@200wpm)___ 617(@250wpm)___ 515(@300wpm)
The monster revealing himself.
The danger that had been lurking beneath all that beauty finally showing its teeth.
The kitchen responded.
Near the prep station, the young woman's knife picked up speed—no longer the delicate pizzicato rhythm from before, but something fiercer.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Ginger root split fast beneath her blade.
The older woman moved quickly too, plating with sharp, decisive movements.
Even the pastry chef had abandoned her careful piping, and was now torching the tops of the crème brûlée with quick, aggressive bursts of flame.
Across the kitchen, the young chef caught my eye and raised the small saucepan he'd been preparing. "It's time. You want to watch?"
“Sure.” I crossed to his station, drawn by curiosity and the pounding rhythm overhead.
He'd already poured a thin stream of neutral oil into the pan. It shimmered under the fluorescent lights, going liquid and loose as the heat climbed.
And the Infernal Dance pounded on—drums driving, horns screaming, Kashchei's demons dancing their savage, hungry dance.
He reached for a small bowl of fresh cayenne peppers—slender, bright red, and curved like crooked fingers.
They looked almost delicate.
Harmless.
He lined three of them on his cutting board and sliced them on the bias, his knife moving in quick, confident strokes.
Seeds spilled across the surface.
"You want the seeds too," He scraped everything toward the edge of the board. "That's where the real heat lives."
“That’s right.”
Then he tilted the board and let the peppers fall.
They hit the oil with a violent crackle.
Percussion drove the room harder now, leaving no space for quiet.
The slices seized immediately.
Losing their shape.
Then curling at the edges.
Blistering and charring as the oil embraced them.
Meanwhile, the seeds popped and danced across the surface.
And the color was captivating. The oil drank in that bright red, deepening. Orange bleeding into crimson. The peppers themselves darkening, their skins going from vivid scarlet to ember.
The smell hit me next.
Sharp.
Aggressive.
It climbed straight into my sinuses.
The air above the pan shimmered.
He stirred gently with a wooden spoon, keeping the peppers moving so they wouldn't burn. The oil had taken on a molten glow, like liquid sunset, like. . .
Fire climbing.
Smoke curling.
Bodies burning on a pyre while I watched from a window above.
I blinked, and my hand began to tremble.
What? No. Don’t think about that. We’ve been doing good.
I blinked again to ground myself.
The pounding of the Infernal Dance swelled around me.
Unfortunately, I could still see the pyre in my head. The flames licking upward. The way the smoke had twisted toward the sky.
The smell of flesh. . .
No.
I shook my head.
Focus. Stay here.
The young chef stirred the peppers in slow, careful circles, completely unaware of where my mind had gone.
The cayenne had deepened now—the slices blackening at the edges, shriveling into glowing oil. "See how they change? When the skins blister like that and the oil turns this color—that's when you know it's ready. The heat's unlocked now."
My voice came out steadier than I expected. "It's beautiful,"
He smiled. "I'll strain out the peppers and fold the oil into the glaze. The karaage will be perfect now."
“I can’t wait to try it.”
The music pounded on.
Relentless.
Savage.
I stepped back from his station, letting the sharp smell of the charred cayenne follow me.
My hands had stopped shaking.
The memory of the pyre was fading, pushed back by the warmth of this kitchen, and the rhythm of creation all around me.
Now to check on the oxtails, I went over to the stove, lifted the lid, and let the steam kiss my face.
The woman at the pastry station looked up. "Nyomi, should I start plating the tart samples? I think we've got the cream ratio right."
"Yes, please. And maybe a little less sugar in the crust next time? With the first samples, it was competing with the sweet potato."
She nodded, making a note on the pad beside her.
I checked the oxtail, lifting the lid to peer inside. The sauce was reducing nicely, but maybe a little slowly. We still had a lot of dishes to test before the day was done.
I'll just turn up the heat a bit. Speed things along.
I reached for the knob on the gas stove and twisted it higher.
The blue flame beneath the pot surged, licking up the sides of the cast iron.
There. That should. . .
The smell shifted to Christmas ham.
Next, the visuals hit me all at once.
The pyre.
The bodies stacked twenty feet from our bedroom window. Over a hundred of them. Traitors and their families—spouses, parents—fed to the flames while the loyal watched in horror.
Flesh sliding off bone.
"Nyomi!" The voice came from far away. "NYOMI!"
Hands grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard.
What?
The kitchen slammed back into focus—but something was wrong.
Thick grey smoke billowed from the stove, pouring up toward the ceiling in angry clouds.
The gas flame I'd turned up was now roaring beneath the pot, blue fire climbing so high it licked over the edges of the cast iron, tongues of orange flame catching on the sauce that had boiled over and splattered across the stovetop.