Chapter 7
I whipped up the marinade myself using whatever spices I could scrounge, and the coating was just a mix of flour and starch.
Once the oil hit that sweet spot, about 350°F, I tossed in the chicken legs. Instantly, they started sizzling, and golden bubbles popped up all around.
That mouthwatering smell kicked in, wafting straight up the chimney.
The old kitchen chimney was a mess. Years of neglect meant it barely worked anymore.
The fried chicken fumes slipped through the cracks in the bricks, drifting past the abandoned floors and the old quarters where the blood servants used to stay.
It went all the way up to the very top of the castle's main building, right beneath the sleeping chamber of my great-grandfather, Grant Nightsong.
Grant was one of the last surviving elders in the history of the vampires.
Seven hundred years ago, he led the Nightsong family to seize a third of the Nightlands and personally slew the most notorious traitor ever to stain the blood race's history.
Two centuries ago, he fell into a deep slumber and hadn't awakened to this day.
As long as his name lived on, no other family would dare to make trouble.
Suddenly, a deep rumble echoed from the very depths of the castle, shaking the whole place.
The servants froze, exchanging uneasy glances. My father burst out of his study, with my three older brothers right behind him.
"What was that noise?" someone blurted out.
"It came from Great-Grandfather's room..." another whispered.
"No way. Great-Grandfather's been asleep for two hundred years..." someone protested.
And then, from the deepest shadows of the castle, an ancient voice rumbled up.
"What is that heavenly aroma?"
My father's face turned pale as a sheet.
He almost tripped over himself rushing toward Grant's sleeping chamber. My three older brothers were right behind him, their cloaks flapping behind them.
When they burst into the sleeping chamber, they were met with a sight that would be burned into their memories forever.
Grant was seated inside his stone coffin, still clad in the black velvet robe he wore when he entered it two centuries ago.
His long, silver-white hair spilled over the edge, and his bare feet pressed against the icy stone slabs. On his aged yet imposing face, there was a mysterious look.
"Redwin," Grant called my father by name, his voice echoing through the chamber.
"Grandfather..." my father stammered, his voice shaking.
Grant slowly turned his head, his eyes lighting up with an uncanny gleam. "What's that incredible smell?"