I scanned the table to try to find something I recognized. “How is it that I grew up just a few hundred miles from here and I’ve never heard of these dishes?”

“We have a recipe-hoarding border patrol at the Illinois state line,” Jolene deadpanned.

“We can’t possibly eat all of this.”

“Just watch,” Zeb muttered. “Jolene will mow through this in no time flat.”

I wondered at the crack on Jolene’s eating habits, particularly from Zeb, since she didn’t have a spare ounce on her and she’d recently given birth to his twins. But there was no malice in expression or tone. It was fond, as if he was just waiting for the word to run and get another tray full of food. The silly, love-struck look on his face made my heart ache a little.

Jolene began systematically loading my plate with little scoops of every dish. I sampled a few familiar things—potato salad, corn casserole, three-bean salad. But when I got to the orangey-yellow substance that sort of resembled scrambled eggs with little red bits, I poked it with my fork. “I’m sorry. But what the hell is this?”

“Homemade pimento cheese,” Jolene said. I took a little bite. “Velveeta, pimentos, and mayonnaise. Oh, and bacon. It’s Aunt Vonnie’s recipe.”

I swallowed, then took a huge gulp of water to wash down the gelatinous mass of funk. “Is Aunt Vonnie here?” I asked. And when they shook their heads, I shuddered, wiping at my mouth with my napkin. “Why? Oh, my God, why would anyone do that to an innocent processed food product?”

“I believe that pimento cheese was invented as a practical joke by two mean old church ladies, but they died before they could get their laugh in,” Zeb told me. “We are left with their legacy of mean-spirited hospitality.”

“I’m going for the seven-layer salad,” I told Jolene, aiming my fork for the bowl of lettuce, peas, bacon, shredded cheese, and purple onions, covered in a dressing consisting of mayonnaise, parmesan cheese, and sugar.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she retorted as I forked a healthy sample into my mouth.

Seven-layer salad was freaking amazing. Simple, fresh, and green, with a series of flavors tumbling against my tongue like dominoes. “This should not be as good as it is,” I told her, taking another huge bite.

“It’s the great mystery of Southern cuisine,” Jolene intoned.

“And what’s that?” I asked, stabbing through a cornflake crust to find a bubbling mixture of cheese and potatoes.

“Hash-brown casserole—hash browns, cream of mushroom soup, cheddar cheese, and a couple of other things.”

I put a scoop into my mouth. It was everything that was good about comfort food, warm and cheesy and gooey and savory. I tucked more into my mouth, moaning indecently.

“Would you two like to be alone?” Zeb asked, eyeing the casserole.

“I think so,” I said, sighing happily as I swallowed another bite.

“Easy, girl.” Jolene chortled. “Pulling the full Meg Ryan is not a good way to introduce yourself to Half-Moon Hollow society.”

“I’ll try to contain myself,” I promised.

This was what food was supposed to be. This was satisfying, filling, comforting. Food was supposed to feed you, body and soul. It was so simple that I felt stupid for not seeing it sooner. Pink Himalayan sea salt? Was just freaking salt. Black truffles? Stinky mushrooms, and I really never liked the taste of them anyway. Smoked extra-virgin olive oil? Well, that was pretty awesome. I couldn’t really give that up.

Food could be simple. Food could be anything you wanted, whether the ingredients came from a farmer’s market or a convenience store. Food could be fan-freaking-tastic.

I shook my head, as if to clear it, and took another bite of cheesy potatoes. Maybe Jolene had slipped some sort of hallucinogen into my portion.

I didn’t care all that much.

Zeb unwrapped a steaming aluminum-foil packet the size of a basketball. “Now, this is pulled pork shoulder. We’re going to give it to you straight, no sauce, at first, because I figure you’d appreciate it by itself. But there are three levels of sauce here in these little cups. Mild, which is basically ketchup, the sort of thing we give to the kids. Hot, which is more of a Tabasco-sauce level of heat. And nuclear, which I do not recommend, even if you enjoy spicy food. There are some intestinal consequences that cannot be undone.”

“Ew!” Jolene squealed. “Zeb!”

“She ate pimento cheese in public. Her threshold for gross is pretty high,” he said, shrugging.

“He has a point,” I conceded, placing a small bite of the pink-gray smoked meat on my tongue. I gripped the picnic table for support as a shudder of pleasure rippled up from my throat. Everything that was good about meat was currently in my mouth.

I sincerely hoped I hadn’t just said that out loud.

“How have I never had barbecue like this before?” I demanded, forking more meat onto my plate. I could taste garlic, white pepper, paprika, the smoky essence of cumin. My mind immediately began scanning my internal wine list to select which vintage would offset the tangy hickory flavor. “I thought barbecue was supposed to be all gloppy sauce and burned ends. But this is like a meat marshmallow, slightly caramelized on the outside, and bursting with soft, moist flavor inside. This is—” I paused to lick my fingers. “How do they do this? What temperature do they use? For how long? Are they just using hickory, or do I detect a note of applewood, too? The smoker, is it aluminum or cast-iron?”

Because she had no answers for me, Jolene simply led me over to the booth where most of the Half-Moon Hollow Volunteer Fire Department was having lunch and introduced me to the cooks, Anna and Joe Bob. They were more than happy to discuss the ins and outs of the smokers, the hickory wood used to smoke and flavor the meat as it cooked, and the base for the sauces. Joe Bob promised to show me which cuts of pork shoulder worked best and how to keep the ribs from drying out before they cooked completely.

“We’re firing up another batch at dawn if you wanna come by,” Anna offered cheerfully, her round, cherubic cheeks smudged with soot from the smoker. “You could see the whole shebang from start to finish.”

“I would love to!” I exclaimed, clapping and hopping up and down like a cranked-up game-show contestant.

“Are you going to keep doing that?” she asked, lifting her eyebrow.

I bit my lip and stopped with the hopping. “No.”

“We’ll get along just fine, then.”

Now, That’s a Spicy Vampire!

5

It was a matter of timing. Sam never left the basement door unlocked while he was awake. So in the window of time between his warming up his “wake-up” blood and showering, I managed to slip into the basement to do my dirty work and ducked out the front door before he saw me.

Jolene had invited me to join her book club for the evening, despite the fact that I hadn’t read The Night Circus. I’d expected a bunch of frustrated housewives slugging back wine in some well-appointed suburban living room. And while there was wine, the group was made up of open, friendly gals who met at a funky little bookshop called Specialty Books.

The interior of the shop was a cheerful mix of paperback pop culture and antique tomes. The walls were painted a cheerful midnight blue, with a sprinkle of twinkling silver stars. There were comfy purple chairs and café tables arranged around the room in little conversation groups. The leaded-glass and maple cabinet that held the cash register displayed a collection of ritual knives and candles that I didn’t quite understand. I was OK with not understanding.

The store had an impressive selection of cookbooks, everything from Introducing Variety to the Undead Diet to Food Gifts for Faerie Folk. I found a deeply discounted title on drinkable sauces for vampires, but Jane, the shopkeeper and book club organizer, warned me against it. It turned out the recently turned French chef–author had not bothered to test his recipes, and his use of eggs, flour, and purees had made several hapless vampire customers quite ill. Jane only kept the book on the shelves because it was something of a cookbook cautionary tale.

Jane was a vampire, as were her manager, Andrea, and several members of the club. At first, I worried that it was a setup, that Sam had somehow managed to round up some of his undead friends to strong-arm me out of town. But then Jane referred to me as Jolene’s “pocket-sized new friend,” and I figured that was more humor than one usually found in a paid assailant.

Jane and Andrea were funny, smart, and snarky as hell, having both been turned in the last five years and having a more human perspective than most vampires. Although they were obviously close, the ladies were polar opposites on the vampire fashion spectrum. Titian-haired Andrea was polished and perfect in a peach sweater set and pearls, while tousled brunette Jane was wearing jeans over her impossibly long legs and a T-shirt touting “Dick Cheney for President—2012.” When I asked her about it, she grumbled that she’d lost a bet with Andrea’s husband.

After paying lip service to the book of the month, the women broke up into smaller “discussion groups,” and I learned all about Jane’s sordid history in the vampire community, including the fact that she’d been turned after a local drunk mistook her for a deer and shot her. A vampire, Gabriel, to whom Jane was now married, saved her by turning her, and they lived happily ever after. Sort of.

“Isn’t that an unusual way to be turned?” I asked, sipping the surprisingly tasty latte Andrea had prepared for me. “I mean, you’d think you guys would make it into the news more often if ‘mistaken for a deer and shot’ was the average vampire experience.”

“Yes, Jane is very unusual,” Andrea said, rolling her eyes. “But she was given a choice about whether she wanted to be turned, which is the norm nowadays. Despite the fact that it’s illegal to turn a human into a vampire against their will, some of us weren’t afforded that luxury. But we make the best of it.”

I noticed the slightly pained expression on Jane’s face as she gave Andrea’s shoulder a little squeeze. I got the feeling there were details about Andrea’s transition that I was missing, but it would be rude to ask. Andrea shrugged and handed Jane what looked like a mochaccino.