Fangs in Fondant Read online

  The third woman at the table, a petite woman with tallow hair and hazel eyes, looked sullen as she leaned in and whispered in Kierra’s ear. She’d been raving about the pink champagne earlier but had been outvoted by the bride and maid of honor.

  “Red velvet,” Kierra said finally. “And we want the design on page twelve.”

  Kierra nodded toward the design book open on the table. Priscilla had assembled the book some time ago, at Anna’s insistence. Many of its pages were also posted on her website.

  Priscilla nearly groaned. That design was the most complicated she’d ever undertaken. If it hadn’t turned out so well, she wouldn’t have included it at all.

  “Dracula’s castle?” she repeated, just to be sure.

  “Yes,” Kierra enthused. “It looks just like the one in the 1970s movie! It’ll be perfect.”

  Kierra could clearly have afforded to rent her own island in Florida for her wedding, whereas the venues in Bellmare were limited and often bloodstained. But of course, that was what the happy couple wanted. Rich, Kierra might be, but Priscilla could spot a horror junkie when she saw one.

  The pair wanted to get married and spend their honeymoon in a haunted house. The bloody history of the town only made it that much more appealing.

  “Of course. What date will you need it by?”

  Priscilla had made Dracula’s cake for the mayor’s Halloween party two years ago, and intended it to be fun and more than a little corny. Now it would be used, in utter sincerity, as a wedding cake.

  “This Friday evening,” Kierra said, checking her phone. “I need it before the rehearsal, if you can manage it.”

  Good God. A multi-tiered cake, baked, frosted, and decorated in all its kitschy glory in three days’ time? She’d need a miracle.

  Fortunately, she had one.

  “I’ll begin right away then.”

  Priscilla could still remember the precise day Olivia Baker had moved into Bellmare five years ago. It had been unusually warm for an October evening in a mountain town such as theirs. She’d been one of a handful of townspeople who had volunteered to help the Bakers move into their new apartment.

  Olivia and her husband Owen had just turned thirty, and had sought a change from the fast-paced city life. After several rounds of in vitro fertilization had failed to give them the child they so desired, they’d decided to move and had adopted Maddison. Maddison resembled Olivia in many ways. She was small, and had auburn hair and deep gray eyes. One could almost assume that they were biologically related. There was only one problem.

  Maddison had been born in 1940 and turned at the age of fifteen, years before her foster mother was even born. She was in her sixties now, and still an infant by vampire standards. With a redhead’s natural complexion, it wasn’t easy to tell she was a vampire. It wasn’t until Priscilla had seen her effortlessly lift a couch out of the moving van that she’d known what she was dealing with.

  Priscilla had been the first to arrive. The Bakers had rolled into town at seven thirty, well after sundown. Ever since being turned in the seventeenth century, Priscilla had been a wake-with-the-moon sort of girl. So she’d beat the rest of the crowd who’d expected the Baker family to arrive early and had given up and taken up other pursuits in the meantime. To be fair, she’d thought she’d be arriving late as well, and had been pleasantly surprised to find that the family had only just gotten into town.

  They’d frozen to the spot when she’d witnessed Maddison, who barely weighed more than 100 pounds, lift the couch above her head. Priscilla supposed she understood their fear. There had been a lot of anti-vampire sentiment in the beginning, and even now, years later, hate crimes were a depressingly common phenomenon in America.

  Olivia had put her small body between Priscilla and the girl. It was funny how that worked. Though Maddison was twice as strong as the average human, Olivia still felt the need to defend her very capable young.

  Then, without saying a word, Priscilla had bent, gotten a hand under the fridge, and lifted it without the use of the dolly. She’d flashed the stunned group a sharp-toothed smile and asked, “So, where do you want this?”

  And that was how she’d made her first real friend in Bellmare.

  Of course, that friendship had turned into more of a friendly rivalry over the years. Olivia had opened a catering business out of her home only a year after moving to Bellmare. It was fortunate that she was a lousy baker, or she would have put Fangs in Fondant out of business. About the only skill that Olivia had that Priscilla hadn’t totally mastered was the art of making the perfect frosting rose. It was stupid and superstitious of her, but she always managed to foul them up when she tried. Some superstitions held that wild roses placed over a grave could render a vampire immobile and unable to feed.

  It wasn’t a real flower, and it probably couldn’t hurt her. But she decided better safe than sorry. Even on Valentine’s Day, she didn’t accept flowers inside her shop and forwarded any orders she had for flower-covered cakes to Olivia.

  Maddison, however, was another matter. She’d been born in 1940 and had grown up in the 1950s, helping her stay-at -home mother cook and clean around the house. She’d been turned just shy of the women’s liberation movement and hadn’t been able to completely shake the cadences of her time. She was a much better baker than her mother and could have put the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. She didn’t.

  It was mostly out of respect, Priscilla thought. She’d been here first, and she had been friendly. There was also a practical reason to abstain, of course.

  Priscilla was one of the few establishments in Bellmare that had blood in stock. Olivia’s parents donated to her often, giving blood every eight weeks, but it wasn’t a perfect system. There were months when Owen or Olivia both were sick and couldn’t trade off with each other. So Priscilla sold to Olivia.

  Now she was prepared to bargain for it instead. She dialed her old rotary phone. Anna giggled every time she saw the poor thing, but Priscilla was still fond of it. She wasn’t a stone-age vampire, unwilling to move forward, but she liked what she liked. And in her shop, at least, she liked having a landline. She waited impatiently for someone to answer. Finally, on the third ring, Maddison picked up the phone.

  “Baker residence, how may I help you?” she chirped.

  “Hey, Maddison,” Priscilla began. It was going to be a long shot, and she knew it, but she had to try, if she didn’t want to build this monstrosity on her own. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “And what’s that?” Maddison asked, suspicion creeping into her voice at once. Priscilla winced. She was too perceptive for her own good.

  “I need your help on a little project. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell your mother. She’s furious every time someone chooses my services over hers.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve got a rush order. A huge, multi-tiered, decorative cake with lots and lots of fondant. It’s due Friday.”

  Maddison whistled. “If I say no, you’re up the creek, aren’t you, Pratt?”

  “Indeed,” Priscilla said, twisting the cord around her finger. “Do you think you could do it?”

  “I’ll need an excuse,” she said.

  “Tell her I’m bartering this month, and you can make up an excuse as to why. Tell her I needed help with the interwebs again, she’d buy that. Three blood bags for services rendered. Sound fair?”

  “I’d do it for two,” Maddison said happily. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Priscilla barely contained her sigh of relief. Now, if she got Anna to do some of the simpler tasks and run the register, she might actually get the cake finished on time.

  “When do you need me to start?” Maddison asked.

  “Now.”

  Chapter One

  Working with fondant could be tricky.

  Priscilla could smell the shortening and sugar from across the room where Anna was already dutifully mixing the batter for the red velvet base. It wa
s an odd experience to be able to appreciate a smell but despise the taste of something. The best human comparison she’d found for the phenomenon came from Anna. Her assistant brewed the coffee strong every evening and took apparent relish in smelling the brew but then refused to drink it.

  Maddison breezed into the shop at a quarter past five wearing a faux-fur coat and draped in not one, but two scarves. Maddison gave Priscilla a half-smile and explained, “Mother worries. I tried to tell her that I can’t get frostbite, but she doesn’t believe me.”

  “You can’t get frostbite?” Anna whined. “That’s so not fair! That would be so useful when Pops and I go skiing in January.”

  “Will his leg be up for that?” Priscilla wondered aloud, setting a pile of ingredients on the counter including unflavored gelatin, corn syrup, glycerin, butter, vanilla, and enough confectioners’ sugar to send a person into diabetic shock from thirty paces away.

  “Might be,” Anna said, setting the creamy mixture aside. She reached thoughtfully for a canister of unsweetened cocoa and fished the red dye from the rack above her head. “The doctors said it would take six weeks for him to return to active duty. It might be three or four months before the swelling is completely gone, and a year before he’s completely recovered.”

  “January is still three months away,” Maddison chirped. “That’s only four months post-surgery, Anna. It might not be a good idea.”

  Anna’s face fell. “We used to go every year with Mom.”

  “I think you should go,” Priscilla said, leaning against the counter. “Just keep him to the kiddie slopes.”

  Anna brightened considerably at that and Priscilla breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. She’d never really liked seriousness. It was a knee-jerk reaction to being raised a Puritan. If things were dour and miserable, she wanted to be as far away as possible.

  “Where do you want me to start?” Maddison asked.

  “I’m making fondant and I need you to make the turrets. They need a day or two to dry. The body of the castle is all fondant, but the rest of it can be made with modeling chocolate, thank God.”

  Maddison pulled her gloves off and set them carefully aside on the table nearest the door. She draped her coat and scarves over the chair. The handle back dining chairs were made of pleather and two dozen round checkered tables accompanied them so that the bakery could seat just shy of a hundred people, though it rarely saw that much traffic.

  Priscilla had gotten most of the furniture for her shop when The Rock and Roll Diner, in the next town over, had closed, its fried cheese curds and trademark burgers falling out of favor with the locals.

  Maddison rounded the counter, considered the lump of fondant leftover from the last wedding cake, and tsked. “It’ll have to do. Where’s your rolling pin?”

  “Third drawer from the left,” Priscilla instructed. “And the texture sheets are down below.”

  They worked in amiable silence for a while before Maddison spoke. “Where’d you get your blood this time, Priscilla? The clinic in Gloucester won’t sell to Mom anymore.”

  Priscilla ground her teeth. She’d learned that unpleasant truth last month when she’d tried to purchase some for this month’s supply. Adult vampires needed about a gallon of blood a month, one or two pints a week, and newer vampires required even more than that. Depriving them of blood was just like taking food away from a hungry child.

  The healthcare system didn’t see it that way. One pint of human blood was worth $150 at the low end, and $300 at the highest. Expired blood—which could be used to feed thousands of vampires for free—was instead sold to laboratories. Thus, the average vampire had to shell out $1,200 a month just to eat. That was a hefty grocery bill and more than Priscilla’s mortgage payment and power bill combined.

  “Tell your mother to visit Dr. Page in Westwend. He keeps expired blood. It’s not as tasty as the new stuff, but it will fill you up.”

  “Or you can always ask me,” Anna piped up, flashing Maddison a dazzling smile. “I’m a sweet treat, aren’t I, Priscilla?”

  “She’ll send you into a sugar coma,” Priscilla said, rolling her eyes. “She subsists off frosting and Gatorade.”

  Maddison giggled and sprinkled more confectioners’ sugar on the rolled-out fondant to keep it from sticking. It would have been easier to buy premade fondant, and Priscilla had been tempted, but so few places she knew still made their own fondant that it was a point of pride for Priscilla to continue to do so.

  “Mom’s going to be mad,” Maddison commented when the silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable. “She’s been trying to drum up new business and a big wedding would have been just the ticket.”

  Guilt rippled through Priscilla. Olivia’s income was unstable at best. Bellmare was too small a town to rely on for consistent business, unless you were an aggressive marketer. Olivia was too meek to get her name out there. Priscilla didn’t feel badly enough to turn over the contract to Olivia, but she did wince.

  Still, wasn’t she helping Olivia in the end by providing her daughter with blood? It was one less expense she had to worry about. She’d just have to hope that would appease her friendly rival once the cake was finished and the orders were paid for.

  And if it didn’t, she was going to get an earful from Maddison’s mother.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Cunningham?”

  Kierra’s mouth twisted down, as though she’d just had a lemon shoved between her lips. Apparently, someone didn’t appreciate the appropriate courtesy title. Priscilla wondered if she’d started calling herself Mrs. Porter already. She seemed the sort to attach her significant other’s last name to hers prematurely.

  “I need another cake.”

  Work came to a halt in the kitchen for a half second as everyone turned to stare at her. “Another cake?” Priscilla said, glad her voice didn’t shake.

  Another cake? If they kept on schedule, they’d barely roll this one out for the rehearsal dinner on Friday. She’d accomplish nothing of size and complexity unless she hired on Olivia, Mrs. Jameson—the pastor’s wife—and Becca Peckman, a recent graduate of Martha Stout’s home economics class. It would be a pricey undertaking for only two cakes.

  “Yes, another cake,” Kierra said waspishly, glaring at them all as though it was somehow their fault that one cake wouldn’t suffice. “Matthew’s aunt called to remind us of her son’s gluten allergies. So we need a gluten-free cake by Friday too.”

  “Another castle?” Priscilla asked, dreading the answer. Kierra considered it for a moment, lips still pursed. Priscilla noted with some displeasure that Kierra’s boots were scuffing a thick black mark onto one of her white tiles. It would take time to get the stain off, time and energy she wouldn’t have until this mess was over.

  “No,” she said finally. “It’s just for the three boys. A round cake will be fine. But I don’t want it to be plain. I want buttercream frosting on it. I want it to be vanilla, and I want there to be flowers on it.”

  Priscilla took in a steadying breath. Not because she needed the air to do anything other than speak, but because old habits never really faded, even when you were over three centuries dead. It calmed her frazzled nerves somewhat.

  “Vanilla and buttercream frosting I can do, but I’m afraid flowers are out of the question.”

  Kierra’s eyes narrowed and her frown deepened even further. Priscilla’s first impression had been of a sweet young woman with a heart-shaped face and a reserved demeanor. Then Kierra had opened her mouth, and all that had been dashed to pieces.

  “How about flower mints then? I need mints as a side dish. Can you do cream the cream cheese kind? Matthew said that roses would be romantic and creepy.”

  “Creepy?” Anna echoed, sounding as confused as Priscilla felt.

  “You know,” Kierra waved her hand impatiently. “Like A Rose For Emily? It’s about a love that transcends death.”

  Actually, it was about madness, obsession, and the sad, loveless life led by E
mily. The bride-to-be’s interpretation was a headscratcher, much like the modern view of Romeo and Juliet as a timeless tale of love. Priscilla kept her mouth shut though, not about to argue with a paying customer.

  “I can’t,” Priscilla said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find those elsewhere.”

  “And why not?” Kierra snapped.

  Priscilla’s smile was not friendly. It was the one she reserved for men who wouldn’t leave Anna alone, or pushy customers who wouldn’t take no for an answer. It exposed just enough of her fangs to startle, without being seen as an outright threat.

  “Call me superstitious, Miss Cunningham, but roses are rumored to be a weakness to vampire kind, so I keep my distance.”

  “They’ll be made of frosting,” Kierra argued, not seeming to notice or care about a gesture most other humans would consider a threat.

  “And a chocolate bar in the shape of a cross can still hurt me,” Priscilla said. “It happened a few years ago on Halloween. So I’ll err on the side of caution.”

  Kierra actually stomped her foot. “Exactly where am I supposed to get those mints? Matthew wants them! And I want an extra for the movies tonight.”

  These were the times she wished that compulsion hadn’t been outlawed. Before becoming naturalized American citizens, vampires could use compulsion, or the act of enthralling another with the use of their eyes or voice. After being accepted as citizens however, it had been declared a violation of human freedom, and subsequently banned by parliament.

  Unethical it might have been, but it had saved her arguments in the past.

  “My mother makes them,” Maddison interjected, saving Priscilla from answering. Her voice was soft, but in the silence that fell after Kierra’s snit, it was easily audible. Priscilla was half tempted to toss the diva out into the street without cake or mints, but she’d made a resolution in January to start being nicer to touchy customers.