Something smelled unbelievably good. Jacob was hanging a lithograph of Chagall's The Bay Of Angels when the most incredible aroma wafted in through his window. Pungent, spicy, most definitely Mexican. His practiced olfactory glands singled out cilantro, cumin, cayenne and — good god, was that clove? How daring! Yes, that would be a marvelous addition to the melange of flavors, accentuating the spiciness while taming the heat a bit. And with the added benefit of freshening your breath! Perhaps Miss Lukas had more culinary expertise than he had given her credit for. Abandoning the Chagall, he stood at the window and, breathing deeply, savored the fragrance of the upcoming dinner.
Jess turned the fan in her kitchen window slightly more to the west, so that it pointed more directly toward Jacob's side of the duplex. She wanted to make damn sure he got bombarded with Eau de Enchilada all afternoon. Jess was humble about some things, but her cooking was not one of them. She was a superb cook, and she knew it. And she was determined to make sure Jake knew it, too. Nobody was going to cast aspersions on her culinary skills and get away with it, not even a guy who talked like David Niven and looked like Brandon Lee.
Jacob was in an excellent mood. He had spent a good part of the day hanging all his beloved Chagalls, and enjoying the mouth watering aromas drifting in through his windows. There was every indication that tonight's feast would indeed be memorable. Midway through the afternoon, he had decided that it would only be neighborly to take a nice bottle of wine with him. He had looked up a good sized liquor store not too far away, and been pleasantly surprised by their varied selection. After much self debate, he had chosen a nice Australian shiraz from the Wyndham estate. Jacob expected its peppery-fruity-minty taste would complement the spicy Mexican cuisine quite nicely. Assuming the evening would be casual, he had dressed in jeans and his newest wardrobe addition, a retro style button-down shirt that looked exactly like the ones his bowling team had worn in 1958. He liked the way he looked — trendy but with an edge. He was looking forward to the evening ahead with high expectations.
Everything was a mess. And not just her kitchen. The only part of this dinner fiasco that had gone well was — thank God for small favors — the enchilada sauce. That had turned out beautifully, after simmering fragrantly all afternoon. But Jess’s mood had turned steadily darker with each obstacle that had risen between her and her goal of a perfect Mexican comida. The boneless chicken breasts she had planned on using were mysteriously missing from the freezer (she could have sworn she’d bought some!), so she’d had to use a fryer instead, meaning cutting up, de-boning and skinning. All of which Jess found disgusting and gross, and which drove the cats crazy. She had been shooing them out from underfoot all day. Larry had even leaped daringly up onto the countertop, earning himself a stint locked in the bathroom. He was still in there, yowling plaintively as he pictured his brothers feasting on succulent chicken parts.
And then the cheese was moldy. The entire two pound block was covered in blue fuzz. Jess had spent more precious time shaving off the outer layer prior to shredding. At least her nibble test indicated that the cheese flavor hadn’t turned too strong. Sharp cheddar GOOD. Roquefort cheddar BAD. While she was dealing with the cheese, the rice burned. Rice was not her forte in the first place. When not cooking to impress, Jess stuck to Minute Rice. But for tonight, she wanted the real stuff. Too bad she forgot all about it until the odor of scorched starch hit her nose. It had been a mad scramble to get the burned rice off the heat and under running water before the smell went out the window. Then she’d had to scrub the pan and start all over.
Jess had intended to make frijoles refritos from scratch, but had forgotten to put the dried pintos in to soak, so she’d had no choice but to open a can of Taco Bell Spicy Refried Beans. It wasn’t that they weren’t good; it was that she had wanted everything to be made from scratch. She hid the telltale can down in the bottom of her trashcan and refused to feel guilty about her planned lie. By the time she was ready to start assembling the enchiladas, Jess was on her last nerve. Usually, she found the dipping-filling-rolling process to be pleasantly therapeutic and soothing. But today she was far too stressed to enjoy it. She was in a hurry. And the tortillas kept splitting, spilling their succulent cargo all over the counter. Goddamn it all to hell and back with Audie Murphy. Emotionally hitting her wall, Jess leaned on the counter, head in hands, and started to cry. Just as the doorbell rang.
The bastard was early! He had to be at least an hour sooner than she had told him to arrive. Damn, she hated that! And today of all days, too. Jess marched to the front door, prepared to tell Mr. Nancy-Boy-In-The-Closet what he could do with himself for the next hour and exactly where to start. Then she happened to glance at the time display on the DVR. 7:00. SEVEN. OH. CLOCK. How in the name of God’s Little Acre did it get to be 7 already?!?! Defeated and thoroughly demoralized, Jess sadly opened her door.
“Good god almighty!” Jacob gasped. “Did the enchiladas attack you?” Jess’s eyes sparked indignant fire. She glared dangerously at him.
"And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you do look rather like an extra in 'Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.' "
And she did. She had obviously been crying recently, and there were shiny streaks down her cheeks. Her beat-up old Bon Jovi T-shirt was spattered with what he most fervently hoped was merely enchilada sauce. It appeared that she had allowed wild monkeys to style her hair that day. Oddest of all, there were handprints of sauce at her temples, reminding him chillingly of the old suttee gate in Calcutta.
Jess looked both annoyed and puzzled at the same time. She glanced down at herself, then raised her hands and patted around on her hair. Her eyes widened with horror as she realized the condition of her appearance. Then with a gasp of dismay, she fled down the hall.
Jacob remained standing at the door. He was still standing there, shiraz in hand, when a considerably cleaner Jess returned several minutes later.
"Well, aren't you going to come in?" she asked irritably.
"Are you inviting me into your home?"
"I sure as hell wasn't planning on serving dinner in the driveway!"
"That is not exactly an invitation."
Jess rolled her eyes in disgust.
"Jake, please come into my house. There, was that exact enough for you?"
"Quite." Jacob stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "But please stop calling me Jake."
Jess’s home was charming, if a bit cluttered for his taste. Plump furniture, potted plants, thick rugs on the hardwood floors. Her taste in artwork was eclectic, and she obviously loved photos of family and friends. And cats. In addition to at least ten framed snapshots of cats of varying ages, there was a large portrait of three handsome cats hanging over the mantel. Jacob smiled. Nutmeg would approve.
A horrifying sound ripped through the air, sending a chill down Jacob’s spine. It sounded remarkably like a banshee, a ghastly spirit indigenous to the British Isles. He had never heard of one elsewhere, but then he had never seen a studio portrait of three cats either. He moved protectively in Jess’s direction.
“Oh, don’t be scared. That’s just Larry. Larry! SHUT! UP!” Jess yelled down the hall.
Shocked, Jacob stared in the direction of the wailing.
“Do you, ahem, have a, shall we say, troubled family member?” Jacob was envisioning a Mad Uncle Larry chained to his bedposts for his own protection. Or perhaps the protection of others?
“He’s troubled, all right. I shut him in the bathroom because he wouldn’t stay out of the kitchen. Now he’s pissed because he loves chicken.”
To save his soul — not that he had one, but if he did — Jacob could not think of a safe response. He was still fumbling possibilities around his brain when two of the cats from the portrait strolled into the room.
“Hey, guys.” Jess knelt and stroked their sleek fur lovingly. “Moe, go tell your brother to knock it off or he won’t get any leftovers tonight.” The huge orange tabby cacked at her, and headed down the hall. Straight past the bathroom to Jess’s bedroom. Curly looked at Jess, then padded to the bathroom door. He sat down, stared at the closed door and began to growl menacingly. The yowling from within ceased.
Relieved that the imprisoned soul was merely an aggrieved feline, Jacob raised an eyebrow.
“It is certainly obvious which is the alpha cat.”
“Oh, yeah. Curly definitely has the balls in the bunch. Not that any of them actually has balls anymore, but Curly’s the boss. Even though Moe’s the biggest, he’s also the laziest. I swear, he’d just lay around and drink beer all day if he could get away with it.”
Jacob assumed Jess was speaking figuratively. “And Larry?”
“Larry is the hyper one. A real brat. Always into stuff. He spends a lot of time in the bathroom.” She sniffed. “Oh, shit!”
Jess dashed into the kitchen and yanked a saucepan off the burner. The beans on the bottom were scorched, but the rest of them would be fine. She hoped. Meanwhile, she needed to finish assembling the enchiladas and get them into the oven.
“Hey, you want a beer?” Jess asked as Jacob appeared in the doorway, Curly at his feet.
“That would be good. I brought some wine for dinner.”
She made a face.
“Wine? With Mexican food? I don’t think so! I’ll whip us up some margaritas when the enchiladas are done. Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”
As Jacob headed for the refrigerator, he noticed with dismay that a distinctive bottle of tequila sat on the counter. And he recognized the label. Oh yes, he did indeed. Herradura Seleccion Suprema Muy Anejo had been responsible for the worst night of depraved debauchery in which he had ever participated. And the worst hangover he had ever lived through. Barely. It was, in fact, the sole reason why he could never set foot in Guadalajara again. Not if he wished to remain a free man. What, he wondered, was Jess doing with a $300 bottle of tequila?
While Jacob located the chilled beer, Jess made quick work of putting the rest of the enchiladas together. But damn, she had been a bit too generous with the cheese, and now she would need to grate some more to sprinkle on top. She grabbed the cheddar and quickly sliced off a slab. And the tip of her finger.
“Ow!” she yelped, then louder, “OW, Goddamn it!”
Jacob hurried to her aid, but halted at the sight of her richly red blood spurting onto the counter. At once his supercanines began to descend. He shut his eyes tightly and tried desperately to distract his body. Tofu, tofu, tofu. Broccoli. Prunes. Aunt Neri in the bathtub. Freddie Mercury performing naked. He concentrated on breathing slowly, waiting for the bloodlust to subside. With intense relief, he felt the teeth retract and he opened his eyes.
Jess, her left hand swaddled in a dish towel, was staring at him.
“Wow, you really don’t like the sight of blood, do you?” she said with concern. “Are you OK? Do you need to sit down or something?”
He shook his head.
“I’m fine. It was just . . . seeing the blood . . . affects me rather strongly.”
“I noticed. Word of advice: Don’t plan on being in the delivery room when your kids are born. You’d faint dead away.”
“I never faint. How is your hand?”
“Oh, it’ll be plenty sore, I’m sure. I whacked off the very tip of my index finger. Guess I should go disinfect it, huh?” Holding her injured hand above her head, Jess left the kitchen.
There was a small puddle of blood gleaming redly against the white counter. Jacob could not take his eyes off it. It called to him, drawing him like a magnet to steel. He stood at the counter, staring down at Jess’s blood, willing himself to not want it. His hand shook as he slowly reached out and dragged a finger through the ruby fluid. Raising his hand, Jacob slowly, sensually licked the blood from his finger. The taste of it, the feel of it on his tongue, was almost unbearably erotic. The most intimate of body fluids, the very essence of life. Jess’s blood was amazingly pure and rich. As the potency of it burned through him, he shuddered in near-orgasmic response. Then he backed away. It would be far too dangerous to risk a second taste.
The enchiladas fully lived up to Jess’s boasting. Succulent, spicy but not tongue-blistering hot. And there was definitely a hint of clove in them. Jacob found it most intriguing. The rice, though clumpy, had a marvelous flavor to it. Personally, Jacob thought the refried beans tasted rather like something out of a can, but that may have been because they were slightly scorched. Needless to say, the margaritas were superb. When you start with the finest tequila money can buy, it’s pretty tough to screw up. Jacob was on his second, and nursing it slowly.
“So, what was that thing at the door?” Jess asked, running her tongue around the salted rim of her glass.
“The door?” He found the sight of her small pink tongue flicking on the glass quite distracting.
“Yeah. I thought for a minute you weren’t gonna come in.”
“We are forbidden to enter a home unless we are invited.”
“We? Oh my God! You’re a Jehovah’s Witness, aren’t you?”
“I am absolutely not. I am, if you must know, a member of the Undead.”
“Never heard of them. What kind of music do you guys play, goth?”
“It is not a band.” Jacob paused, then figured, what the hell. “I am a vampire.”
Jess spewed Triple Sec and tequila.
“You don’t say. And yet you were able to go out today in broad daylight to buy wine.”
“I seem to be immune to all the usual vampire killers.”
“How convenient for you.”
“Not really. Living this long, life becomes quite tiresome.”
“And just how long are we talking about?”
“A long time. Too long.”
“How long? Like, hundreds of years?”
“Yes,” he said flatly, and gave Jess a quelling look. She was having a hard time concealing her amusement. She shot him a smirking grin and picked up her glass.
“Jess doesn’t really suit you,” Jacob commented, studying her face. “It’s much too masculine. Why do you not go by Jessica?”
“Because it’s not my name,” she responded, sounding oddly sullen.
“Oh? Then what is ‘Jess’ short for?”
“I don’t use my given name. EVER.”
Now his curiosity was piqued. “Jessamine, Jacinda, Jesmondene?”
“No.”
“Come now, it can’t be that bad! It must be Biblical. The truly dreadful names usually are.”
Jess declined to comment, ducking her chin and glowering at him forbiddingly.
Jacob mentally ran through the feminine names mentioned in the Old Testament. He couldn’t think of a single one that began with . . .
Jezebel.
Niu, would a mother actually do that to her child? The name was synonymous with deceit and treachery in multiple cultures. What kind of woman could look at her innocent newborn and saddle her with such a burden? Jacob cast Jess a look soft with sympathy.
Immediately, her chin came up and jutted out belligerently.
“My mom loved the name. She said it was a real shame that such a beautiful name was thought so poorly of, and she thought people should use it so that would change. And she started with me.”
“I see. A noble undertaking, changing a centuries old concept. And yet you undermine her efforts by choosing to not use the name, do you not?”
Jess sighed.
“It’s tough. Kids made fun of me all through school. And sometimes I would swear it’s kept me from getting job interviews. People jump to conclusions, you know? It’s really stupid. Nobody thinks every Mexican guy named Jesus is gonna walk on water. But they hear the name Jezebel, and just assume I’m some evil bitch.”
Jacob nodded in understanding.
“I, too, have been dealing with stereotypes all of my life. Believe me, I know what you have gone through. But I agree with your mother. It is a beautiful name, and I would be honored if you would permit me to use it.”
“No. Well, maybe. . . . OK, just not around other people, though, OK? Just between us.”
“All right. For now.”
“Until — UNLESS — I say otherwise.”
“For now.”
