When you have all the time in the world, there are days when the time drags second by second, each one stretching out endless and tedious...

Today was one of those days for Justin. Friday, the 10th of December 2025. A waiter squeezed past him, apologising.

"Some fucker's sent their dish back. Says they wanted their steak cooked medium-rare, not rare. I'm happy to spit on it when you send it back."

He dumped the plate in front of Justin, the blood from the meat seeping onto the plate. Justin checked the orders on his tablet. Shit. The customer had indeed asked for rib-eye done medium rare. As a food snob, he'd assumed customers only ever wanted their steaks to touch the griddle and then jump off. Any further cooking wasted expensive meat.

He should have rested that meat longer too. Professional chefs didn't send out plates with blood swirling around the creamed potatoes and green beans.

You could say his attention wasn't on the job today.

"Apologise profusely," he told the waiter. Joe? The guy had started a few days ago. "And say we'll knock 50 percent off his bill."

Dorian wouldn't approve. He could hear him now. "Justin, mate. You're a fabulous cook, but your business sense is appalling. Leave it up to me, right?"

Club Sapphire's kitchens were nowhere near as fancy as the restaurant Justin had started out in. Crowded too, he and his team crammed into a narrow space, blasted with heat from the ovens, their heads continuously banging off the wooden eaves. The club building dated back to the 1700s when most people had been much shorter.

Lewis, his movements as always cat-like in their grace, materialised next to him. He swept two fingers across the blood on the plate and licked them.

"Not bad," he said, "but not a patch on the human stuff. Want me to raise hell with your complaining customer?"

He flashed his teeth, the sharp points so long they grazed his chin. Joe, the new waiter, drew back, alarmed.

"Joe, this is my brother," Justin said, turning to the waiter. "Thinks he's a funny man. It's my mission in life to disabuse him of that notion."

On cue, the door swung open. "Can I get something to eat? I didn't get the chance to eat before my set, and I'm starving."

Robin rubbed his hands together. As there were now four bodies in the kitchen, the overcrowding put space at a premium. Robin picked up the abandoned plate of steak and dug in, the bloodiness of the meat, and the luke-warm temperature of the dish no barrier to his enjoyment.

"Amazing," he said, closing his eyes. "You get better and better, Justin."

Just as well Dorian wasn't in this evening. He'd hit the roof. The steak the customer had sent back could have been thrown on the grill for a minute or so, the plate tidied up and the dish sent out once more. By far the cheapest option.

Robin, as resident comedian, was entitled to a free meal any night he did the stand-up gig. A free meal equalled sandwiches or soup, not prime beef.

"How did it go tonight?" Justin asked, heating up the griddle pan and seasoning a brand-new steak with pepper and a thin slick of mayonnaise—a chef's trick few people knew about. The salt would be added as he cooked it. "Did they like your new material?"

Robin specialised in vampire jokes. Most of them Christmas cracker style. For reasons Justin had never understood, his material drove the crowds wild. They laughed, hooted, cheered and even whistled on the odd occasion.

Once upon a time, Robin had worked for Vampire Security. And hated it. But he'd always been decent to Justin, and he'd saved Lewis's life. For that Justin owed him the odd expensive steak dinner and pretending to enthuse when he talked about his latest jokes.

"Yeah, great," Robin said, "you remember that joke about the vampire wanking in front of a mirror and bet you didn't see him coming? I got a standing ovation for that!"

Next to Justin, Lewis stamped on his foot hard. Justin nudged him back. His twin's tolerance for Robin's terrible jokes did not extend as far as Justin's. And Lewis claimed all the time that the real reason people came to the club was not for the comedy nor even the food, but for the edgy, drop-dead gorgeous DJ.

Him, in other words.

Steak cremated to the customer's liking, the kitchen emptied once more, leaving Justin on his own. There were no other orders, most of the clientele having eaten before Robin's set. Justin started to clean up. In a small place like this, there weren't vast numbers of staff. He doubled up as the pot boy, sous chef and pastry chef.

Talking of pastry... He wished he could have seen Maya's face when she received that cake delivery. He'd um-ed and ah-ed over it for days. Should I do this? The week before Kyle had dropped into the club, picking one of the busiest times to saunter into the kitchen.

"Hey, Justin."

Justin, in the middle of straining bones and vegetables to make a consommé, paused. He hadn't seen Kyle, or Maya, in almost a year. Not in the flesh, anyway. Ever since he and Lewis had returned to Dunrovia, his brother allowed back when Cheryl Balci arranged a public pardon for Lewis, Justin had avoided any place he thought she might be. She was on the TV and online all the time. Justin did his best to click away or switch off the second she came on screen.

Kyle looked... sleek, his dark hair glossy smooth and his skin shiny with health and life. The opposite of Justin's. He wore jeans Justin recognised from an advert all over the internet, a slogan tee that clung to his torso and an aftershave that made its scent known above garlic, fried meat and baking bread.

"Hi," Justin said, aware that the two waiters in the kitchen were nudging each other, anticipating a scene. He stirred himself. "How's fatherhood?"

Kyle's face lit up. "Amazing. Do you wanna see the pics?"

Not really, but Justin nodded anyway, praying none of them would show Maya. He needn't have worried. Every picture showed Mirac in some person's adoring arms—his grandmothers, his aunt's, even Shayla and loads of them with Kyle. None where he was with Maya.

Curious.

The picture show over, Kyle pocketed his phone. "Do you want to come to the wedding?" he asked, the tone defiant. "Maya said I should ask you. She wants you to be part of our big celebration."

Ah. The real reason he'd popped by. To rub Justin's face in his triumph. Justin knew to 99 percent certainty either Kyle hadn't told Maya about this or had said no when Kyle suggested they ask him.

Bell-end.

"When is it?" he asked. As if the date didn't loom in front of him every time he looked at the calendar on the wall.

"Friday the 10th," Kyle said, "ceremony at one pm and reception at 2pm."

Justin made a show of checking the calendar. He knew what it would say, but he might as well make it seem as if attending the wedding of his ex-girlfriend was something that didn't bother him.

"Sorry, I can't. Fridays are our busiest day," he told Kyle, "and the other chef's off that day."

"Shame," Kyle said, the word not disguising the relief that passed across his face. What a stupid game the two of them had just played—one pretending he was cool enough to invite his girlfriend's ex to their wedding, the other faking indifference.

But Kyle's actions had riled Justin up so much, later that day he hit on the idea of being at the wedding in a sneaky way. What did Maya adore? Carrot cake. He'd make the best-ever version of carrot cake, dust off his sugar-craft skills and decorate it fit to impress the fussiest of French pâtissiers.

When Dorian wandered in later that day, Justin was in the middle of shaping hundreds of white fondant roses to scatter over the top tier.

Dorian sniffed the air. "Have you made a cake?"

"Yup." Justin replied. Sugar work was fiddly and not suited to cooks with big hands.

Dorian picked up one of the three cakes. "What a big cake. Large enough for a wedding, I'd say."

Dorian's invite had turned up a few weeks ago.

"Thought I'd do it to show no hard feelings, etcetera," Justin said, Dorian's slight shake of the head showing he thought Justin's explanation a crock.

But when Justin sent the cake off, imagining Maya eating and enjoying it made him far happier than it ought to. Perhaps because she was the first human he had cooked for many moons ago, and how much he'd loved watching her eat. The questions he used to bombard her with. He stuck a small card in the box.

"Enjoy the cake. I hope it's the best one you've ever eaten. Best of luck."

No name. Maya would know.

Justin checked the time now—on this endless, endless day. Five to one. In films and on TV, this was the bit where he came to his senses, jumped on a motorbike and roared off to the church/hotel so he could burst through the doors right at the bit where the priest/vicar/registrar said, "If anyone present knows any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined in marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace..."

"Baby! Joe said some bastard customer sent a plate of food back. What a cheek!"

Letitia slid her arms around his waist. One day, Justin would tell her how much he hated being called Baby. He was 23 years old, albeit his body hadn't advanced beyond 21—the time when vampires converted him. Not a baby at all.

A small niggle, he told himself, twisting around to face her. She took his face in her hands. The human Letitia had inherited a genetic bounty—five different ethnic identities mingling to create a uniquely beautiful face and body.

Slanted cheekbones.

Thick dark hair that hung to her waist.

Eyes fringed with thick lashes and so enormous they seemed to take up half her face.

Slight, curvy body that fitted neatly into whatever position he suggested in bed at night...

The customers drooled over her—drunk guys hanging around the bar as she dispensed pints, cocktails and sassy comebacks to their far too forward requests.

"Letty!"

"Lewis!"

Justin's twin even had his own name for her. He'd drifted back into the kitchen once more. To Justin's surprise, Lewis, the world's biggest playboy vampire, never tried it on with Letitia. It wasn't about honour—his twin telling himself his brother's girlfriend was off limits—as Justin had asked him one night.

"Not my type," Lewis muttered, refusing to elaborate any further. All his subsequent actions backed the statement up. Letitia's cropped tops and short skirts did not draw any reaction. Lewis's eyes never lingered on her.

If Letitia knew the significance of the day (and Justin hadn't told her) she said nothing.

"What time do you finish?" she asked.

"Ten o'clock."

"Excellent!" She clapped her hands. "So do I! There's this new club opened a few doors away. Meant to be the best. Can we go there?"

Lewis tutted, muttering that the two of them should be loyal to Sapphire's, the best club with the world's most awesome DJ in it. He didn't mean a word of what he said, his eyes catching Justin's just for a second. Lewis knew what day it was. Justin might deny it—I'm not bothered, Lewis, promise!—until he was blue in the face, but twins always guessed when the other lied. They might not get inside each other's heads anymore (no point) but who needed mind reading when your body language gave everything away?

"Sounds great," Justin said. With any luck, the club served decent whisky. It wouldn't get him out of his head blotto, drunkenness being a uniquely human ability, but it might help blank out the visions that kept popping up in his head.

Maya gliding up the aisle, the surrounding audience cheering and whistling. She wore a too tight dress. Her hands held flowers, one of them straying repeatedly to the front of the dress that she longed to tug at, yanking it further up, terrified her boobs might fly out.

No-one noticed it but her. Deposited at the front, the man standing there turned, eyes dampening as he took her in.

A vicar/priest/registrar standing before them, voice solemnly intoning, Say after me—do you Maya Delightful Dupont take this man, Kyle, etcetera, etcetera...

Delightful wasn't even her sodding second name. Justin had no idea what it was.

He snapped out of it and wrapped his arms around Letitia.

"See you then."

She headed back to the bar.

"Gorgeous woman," Lewis said, his voice muffled as he dug around in the chest freezer.

He emerged., shaking off ice particles, bag in hand. The restaurant made its own black pudding—oats and spices mixed with pig's blood. Nothing like as good as the human stuff, but an okay substitute. He shook the bag at Justin.

Justin raised an eyebrow. That stuff was bought and paid for—meant for human, not vampire consumption. Plus, Lewis was supposed to abide by human/vampire integration rules. Easier now than they had been when the National Conservatives had been in change, but one stickler point remained.

Thou shalt only drink fake blood.

Lewis shoved the bag into the microwave. Minutes later, the beep sounded—the butcher shop stink hitting the air at once. He retrieved the bag and slit the top, gulping down half its contents in a one-r.

"Want some?"

Justin shook his head. Fake blood tasted like shit. The human equivalent of the state-licensed vampire diet was chicken and broccoli, no seasoning, no fat day in day out. The dullest of the dull. But it filled you up. Removed the thoughts of pouncing on people, sinking your teeth into their necks and sucking, sucking, sucking until...

He grabbed the bag off Lewis. "Go on, then."

AUTHOR'S NOTE - hello and thanks for reading! I hope you're enjoying the latest instalment of the series so far.  Next update, Friday 19 March 2021.