Finally, something worked out as planned.

  No screaming. No manipulation—well, less manipulation. And no rivers of blood… yet. For once, it hadn’t ended in utter disaster. Or at least, not completely. Progress, I guess.

  Mary had agreed. Begrudgingly. Hesitantly. But it still counted.

  Her incessant sense of duty toward her citizens had nearly ruined everything. Again. Her morality wrapped around her spine like steel, immovable and blindingly inconvenient. Tom, of course, had the subtlety of a brick and helpfully reminded me—again—that I could exploit that. That I would exploit it, eventually.

  God, I wanted to punch him. Right there, in front of Mary. The urge pulsed behind my eyes so strongly I had to start counting numbers backwards to avoid lunging at him like a wild animal. Focus, I told myself. Breathe. She didn’t respond well to threats, and for once, I didn’t want to force her. I wanted this… arrangement… to work. Without threatening her, if possible.

  A partnership. A family. Something more than a battlefield.

  And yet, I still had to drag us over the finish line the same way I always did—by reminding her what I was capable of.

  Great job, Lucinda. So much for progress.

  And to top it off, I was still wearing that godawful white outfit she insisted on seeing me in—the one that was supposed to make me look “less threatening.” A gesture. A costume. Fine, yes, technically it was just the underwear now—the dress was soaked in blood and tossed aside somewhere in the room. But the intention had been there. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

  Anyway, deal’s done. Now came the hard part.

  Cleaning it all up.

  We had to erase the trail, dispose of everything incriminating, silence witnesses, explain the walking corpse still feeding off my neck—and above all, make the chaos believable.

  I turned to the small circle of allies—I say “allies” generously—and raised my voice.

  “Well then, we’re a team now, aren’t we?”

  The responses came in sequence:

  “Obviously.”

  “Apparently.”

  Grunt.

  I grinned. “See? We’re practically family already.”

  Then I clapped my hands together and turned toward Mary with something bordering on enthusiasm. “So! Let’s solve all our problems in one go. Mum, would you like to start us off?” I asked with a radiant smile, half performance, half genuine curiosity.

  She blinked, then offered her idea with all the elegance and confidence of a true noblewoman. “What if we show Arthur to the public? If I claim I was pregnant with you all these years ago, it would explain your existence, wouldn’t it? The word of a duchess should be enough.”

  Tom stared at her like she’d grown a second head. I didn’t blame him—her idea was naive, if not laughable—but I appreciated the sentiment.

  I nodded encouragingly, wearing my sweetest, blood-stained smile. “Mmm. Very creative. It could work... if I weren’t, you know, immortal and bitey.”

  Tom, naturally, couldn’t help himself. “Your plan is shit.”

  “Tom,” I snapped, my voice low and sharp. I didn’t care if he was right. He shouldn′t speak to her that way. Not now. “Be nice to her.”

  He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in my tone. But after a moment of incredulous silence, he relented with a grunt and a change in phrasing.

  “What I meant to say is, there are some… complications. Like the maids. They know Lucinda’s a vampire, and they’re loyal to Arthur. If they talk, we’re all screwed. We need to silence them. Permanently.”

  “Well,” I mused, brushing a smear of blood from my cheek, “at least you’re consistent.”

  I turned to Arthur, who was still attached to my shoulder like a particularly unhelpful accessory. “Arthur? Any brilliant ideas?”

  He let out a contented grunt, still lost in whatever strange bliss he was riding. I patted his head. “Arthur has the best plan so far.”

  Then I looked at Tom again, my expression sharpening with purpose.

  “We need a mob,” I said plainly. “A chaotic, angry, drunken mob. You’re good at chaos, right? Stir them up. Say Arthur’s gone mad. Say he’s attacking his own staff. Let the people do the cleanup for us.”

  Tom’s grin returned. “Can do. Should I dress like a butler for extra drama?”

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  I pretended to consider it seriously. “You’d look ridiculous… but yes. Definitely. Just make sure it’s believable.”

  Then I turned back to Mary.

  “Now, Mum,” I said, folding my hands behind my back, “do you happen to have a very secure room in this lovely mansion of yours? And I mean secure. Like, survive-the-entire-building-collapsing secure.”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Oh, no reason,” I said with a shrug and a suspiciously innocent smile. “Just need a place to stash a body or two. Temporarily.”

  This wasn’t going to be easy. We had a long night ahead.

  But for the first time… I wasn’t doing this alone.

  “The weapons chamber is beneath the garden,” Mary said cautiously, as if unsure whether she was offering me salvation or condemning us all. “It’s connected to the cellar, reinforced with stone and iron. It’ll probably survive anything.”

  That sounded perfect.

  “Fireproof?” I asked, cocking my head. “Just in case?”

  She hesitated. “I… can try.”

  I nodded approvingly. It wasn’t like I’d suffocate in there if things went south. “Do your best.” Then, turning toward Arthur, I opened my mouth—then immediately closed it. “Arthur… actually, never mind.”

  Mary gave me that look again, the one that hovered somewhere between horror and suspicion. “What now?” she asked, her voice braced for catastrophe.

  I smiled. Innocent. Harmless. Full of sinister undertones I wasn’t even trying to hide.

  “Can we make cookies?”

  Dead silence.

  Four eyes blinked. Arthur kept staring at my neck as if he had unfinished business there. Mary looked like I’d slapped her with a feather. Tom’s jaw slackened. A solid few seconds passed before I realized none of them were breathing.

  “What?” I asked, blinking. “I haven’t had cookies in centuries.”

  No one moved. No one said anything. Not even Arthur. Even Arthur was too stunned to grunt.

  This reaction was a bit much, wasn’t it?

  I stood up proudly, walked over to Arthur, and—bam—knocked him out with a clean punch to the temple. He dropped like a sack of potatoes, finally giving me some peace. With that done, I took a moment to adjust my outfit—something presentable this time, not soaked in blood or desperation. After checking in the mirror to confirm I was elegant and terrifying in equal measure, I turned to leave the room.

  Still, nobody moved.

  Mary and Tom just stared. Like I’d declared I was running for queen of the bunnies.

  I puffed up my cheeks, put my fists on my hips, and glared. “What is it now? Staring contest?”

  Tom finally spoke. “Boss… is ‘cookie’ some sort of metaphor? Like, for drinking blood? Or… I don’t know… torture?”

  I tilted my head in confusion. “What makes you think that?”

  “You don’t bake,” he said flatly.

  Mary nodded in agreement. “He’s not wrong.”

  I looked toward Arthur for backup—then remembered I’d knocked him out.

  “Well then,” I said, planting a hand on my hip, “what am I the type for, huh?”

  Tom gave me a deadpan look. “Let me be clear. The personification of evil doesn’t bake cookies.”

  I scratched my cheek thoughtfully. Was that a threat? A judgement? Some passive-aggressive form of rebellion? But no, his expression wasn’t mocking—just… concerned. Genuinely baffled.

  Mary chimed in, far too smug for someone who had once offered me tea with trembling hands. “Honestly, I expected you to steal cookies from small children. Not make them.”

  I gasped. “That would be mean!”

  “Exactly,” Mary replied, as if she'd just solved some ancient riddle.

  I squinted. “Wait… are you saying I’m mean?”

  Neither of them answered.

  “Are we making cookies or not?” I asked, trying to push their bizarre conclusions aside before they got under my skin.

  Mary sighed, defeated. “Sure…”

  Tom looked like he wanted to protest, but a sharp glance shut him up. He muttered something about chocolate chips being overrated and followed us out of the room.

  “Do you have flour? Eggs? Butter? Chocolate?” I asked, listing the basics with all the fervor of someone about to summon an ancient spirit in cookie form.

  Mary faltered.

  “I… don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve never… I mean, nobles don’t exactly…”

  Of course. Nobles. Too good to bake their own sins into dough. She took my hand anyway—held my hand—and began leading me toward the kitchen like I was a misbehaving child. Naturally, I closed my eyes for the walk through the sunlit house. The kitchen, at least, was underground. Safe. Dim. Comfortable.

  The moment we entered, I opened my eyes and took it all in.

  “Let the struggle begin!” I cried triumphantly, rolling up my sleeves like a warrior entering battle.

  The others hovered behind me like anxious ghosts. I didn’t trust any of them near the ingredients. Not Tom, with his taste for chaos. Not Mary, with her confused nobility. And certainly not the unconscious Arthur, who would probably try to eat the eggs raw.

  No. These cookies were mine.

  I seized a bowl, slammed flour into it with way too much force, and began my mission.

  If I was going to be the daughter of a duchess now, I could at least pretend to be civilized.

  And if not?

  Well… I still had the cookies.