by Sarah Zettel
Within five minutes, Trudy had finished her snack, the pucker had entirely left her mouth, and we were all one big happy family. I also had a tray of mixed crostini and a pitcher of sangria all ready to go.
“Reese, give Trudy a hand with these, and see if we can get a final head count for dinner before you fire the steaks. And ask Mrs. Alden if we’re going to need tea as well as coffee.”
“Yes, Chef.” Reese, who had worked front of house as well as kitchens in his career, balanced a tray on his fingertips. “After you, Ms. Lyons.” He bowed, which is no small trick when carrying a loaded platter one-handed. Ms. Lyons tipped her head, and her eyes flashed, letting him know he was playing with fire. Oh yes, she was ours. I managed to hide my grin by ducking my head and getting back to work.
Steak without potatoes makes no sense to me, so we’d planned a basic mash; fingerling Yukon Gold potatoes, butter, and shredded Parmesan. Reese had gotten the water boiling and the cheese prepped. I pulled the paring knife from my roll and started in peeling little round potatoes.
Footsteps sounded on the back stairs. I glanced over without slowing my knife work. Henri Renault, in full evening dress, gold cane in his hand, and monocle gleaming in his eye, entered through the back door.
“Ah, bon soir, Chef Caine,” he said in his Frenchified English. “I was looking for my son Jacques. Have you perchance seen him?”
“I’m afraid not.” Where would he have had time to get to? We weren’t that far past sundown. Hadn’t Mrs. Alden said all three of the nightbloods were staying here? Jacques would have been comatose with the other vampires until at most a half hour ago.
Beyond these thoughts, my attention was uncomfortably taken up by the fact that Henri Renault was not leaving. Instead, he was strolling toward me, tapping his cane thoughtfully against the cupboards. Warning flares fired up inside me.
“Was there something else, Monsieur Renault?” I asked, locking my gaze firmly on my knife and my potatoes. “I’m afraid I’m a little busy right now,” I added, because I had the feeling he was in no mood to catch the subtle hint.
Apparently, he was in no mood to catch the direct hint either. In fact, he was moving closer to me. I couldn’t hear his shoes on the kitchen floor as I’d been able to on the wooden stairs, but in the warm kitchen, it was easy to feel the cold vampires carry around with them. Vampires also tend to have a faint but distinct odor that can be anything from old blood to fresh truffles. Even beneath his cologne, Henri Renault’s was a lot closer to blood. The skin on the back of my neck started to crawl.
What’s taking you so long out there, Reese? I picked up another potato.
“You are direct, Chef Caine,” Renault purred. “I like that in…”
My hands froze. “You really don’t want to finish that sentence, Monsieur Renault.”
“No, perhaps not.” I heard the smile. He was charmed, and amused.
Time to nip this in the bud. “What are you doing here?”
“I am witnessing the marriage of my favorite son.” Renault said, deliberately misunderstanding and blatantly lying at the same time. Oh, great, a multitasker. “I am also spending time with a beautiful woman.” His voice dropped, becoming silky and inviting. Even more disturbingly, it managed to turn his personal cold front to an air of warmth.
Very carefully, I laid down my paring knife. Renault was right beside me, just out of my line of sight. I felt the pressure of his presence against my thoughts, urging me to lean closer, to yield to his persuasion. His stubby fingers traced a line down my neck. I turned toward that light touch, shifting my eyes slowly as I did, as if about to lock my fascinated gaze with his. I drew a deep breath. Renault smiled. A fang flashed in the track lighting. His dry fingertip dipped beneath the collar of my chef’s coat. I hissed in a little more air and slid my palm across the counter until I touched the handle of my wooden spoon. Renault leaned in close.
I screamed like the Bride of the Creature in a B movie and smacked that spoon across his face.
Renault howled, leapt back, and slammed against the wall. The air filled with the thunder of running feet. A split second later, Reese was leading a charge through the swinging door backed by a full phalanx of Aldens, Maddoxes, and undead party guests.
I love it when a plan comes together.
Brendan shot past the others and caught my hand. I saw murder in his blue eyes. Not for me, of course, but for whoever’d caused me to take up spoons. I’m okay, I said silently. He read my assurance and nodded, drawing back just a little. But he didn’t let go of me.
Just then, the handle on the side door rattled, and, I swear, we all jumped and turned at the exact same moment. The door opened. Brendan had his free hand up; so did Deanna and Mrs. Alden.
My not-quite-threatening vampire from the night before pushed his way through the door. “Sorry I’m…”
Jacques Renault saw me recognizing him. He also saw the witches in fighting stance. Then he saw his sire plastered against the wall.
“Late,” Jacques finished. “What have I missed?”
11
“Where have you been?” demanded Henri in French, his voice gone high and squeaky from trying to shout and keep out of spoon range at the same time.
“What have you been doing?” Jacques slid sideways so as not to be directly downrange from the magic-ready Maddoxes.
“I’m going to bleed you both white!” growled Gabriel as he shoved his way through the pack of my other would-be defenders. “It’s all right. Please,” he said in English as he pushed Deanna’s hands back down from the witch equivalent of en garde. “It is all right, n’est-ce pas, Chef?”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’m so sorry!” I apologized to the world at large, but I locked eyes with the senior Renault. He needed to know I had no fear of him, or his vamp whammy. “You startled me, Monsieur Renault.”
“Not to worry.” Renault stayed pressed up against the wall as if he hoped it would open at his back and get him a little farther away from me.
“It’s not a good idea to come up behind a chef,” I went on pleasantly. “We get lost in our work.” I pulled away from Brendan and started to stir the boiling water with my wooden spoon as if there were something actually in the pot. I also ducked my head to hide the complete lack of shame on my face. “Sorry again, Mrs. Alden. Dinner will be ready shortly.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Alden stonily from her position by the swinging door.
“Henri,” said Deanna. “Let’s go out front.” Her tone was even more pleasant than mine had been, and just about as genuine. I also noticed her rub her fingertips together as if they itched. Was it possible the bride-to-be did not get on well with her future sire-in-law? “I’ll get you a glass of sangria.”
“Yes, yes.” With an effort, Henri Renault moved away from the wall and bent down to retrieve his cane. He kept his eyes on me the whole time. “Sangria. An excellent idea.”
“Jacques, you’re coming with us?” asked Gabriel, but there was most definitely an order supporting that question mark.
“Sangria with angry Maddoxes.” Jacques was working very hard on not looking at me. “Delightful. In here?” He was through the swinging door into the dining room almost before I could see him move, and way before I could come up with anything clever to say in front of his present-and-future family about how nice it was to see him again.
And that was pretty much that. Henri bowed to let the ladies precede him out. Gabriel hung back long enough to make sure his sire left with the rest of the party. Brendan, on the other hand, stayed right where he was.
“What actually happened?” Brendan beat Reese to the question by a finely diced second.
I grimaced, thought about telling them about my previous encounter with Jacques, and thought about the delay the explanation would cause in getting the food out to the clients. It’d probably be best to stick with the basics right now. “Turns out Henri Renault is a hands-on kind of nightblood.”
“I’m surprised he still
has hands,” said Reese. I’m sure it was just coincidence that he picked up his big chef’s knife right then.
“I considered it, believe me. I’m okay,” I added to Brendan, who was contemplating the door to the dining room. Henri was lucky Brendan’s self-control was a lot better than Deanna’s, or we’d have been sweeping nightblood ashes off the floor. “Renault thought he could roll me, although I’m not sure why he’d bother.”
As I said that, I realized how good a question it was. Why would he bother? Maybe there was no reason. Maybe he was just the kind of vampire that treats the ability to walk freely among the living as an invitation to a 24/7 buffet. But taken with Oscar’s all-but-official-paperwork murder, and Jacques’s warning from last night, his actions took on both meaning and import. Oh, joy.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Brendan was lowering his mental hackles, but it was taking a lot of effort.
“I’m sure.” We did need to talk. I had lots he needed to know, but I couldn’t tell him any of it now. I trusted Brendan, truly I did, but it was not reasonable to expect anyone to be able to keep calm ten seconds after learning somebody at the dinner table with him had probably offed the last chef. Besides, my potatoes were going to turn brown if they didn’t get into the water real soon. “You get back up front, make nice with the family, and don’t start a fight.”
“Not even a little one?” I swear to God, he sounded exactly like a disappointed twelve-year-old.
“Are you trying to get me fired? Go.” I folded my arms at him, but at the same time all I wanted to do was hold on to him, because I was not one hundred percent certain I was as okay as all that.
I suspect Brendan knew this, but he just gave me a peck on the cheek and headed out to join the rest of the party. I turned on Reese, but whatever he’d been watching a second before, all his attention was now directed at his precious steaks. I decided I could let his ghost of a shit-eating grin pass without comment, just this once, and only because we had to get this dinner finished.
I’d found some garden peas at the market. You don’t mess with fresh peas any more than strictly necessary. We just blanched them with a little mint and a little sugar and let them be the wonderful thing they are. So Mrs. Alden wouldn’t start wondering if she was paying out all this money for plain home cooking, we also put together a salad of roasted fennel bulb and Jerusalem artichoke with tangerine vinaigrette. After the steak and potatoes, the sorbet with sauce and Marie’s shortbread would complete the meal for the daybloods. For the nightbloods, Reese and I had settled on a cold veal consommé for starters. It was already in bowls in the fridge, beautifully clear and delicate. Reese had also made up some curried liver pâté (a private wink to Charlie’s kidneys, only much milder and much, much classier). A slice of that would go in the center of the consommé. Then, while the living had their steak course, the nightbloods would enjoy a Polish soup made from duck blood. The base for the blueberry sorbet made a flavorful dessert beverage when combined with whole milk, homemade ice cream, and more orange zest and mint. It maybe wasn’t quite up to Marie’s standard, but it was awfully close.
The sound of conversation reverberated through the swinging door, indicating people had gathered around the hors d’oeuvres. The clock read nine—dinnertime. I set out the consommé for Trudy to take to the guests, keeping one eye on the potatoes while Reese lovingly dried and seasoned his steaks. Then, on the other side of the door, the sound of voices stopped dead.
I looked at Reese. Reese looked at me, and the door, and at me again.
A man’s deep voice said something. A woman’s answered. The man spoke again. Brendan said something I couldn’t catch.
I will not go listen at the door. I adjusted consommé bowls. I will not go listen at the door.
“And you won’t either,” I said to Reese, who was looking at me again.
Reese didn’t even pretend not to know what I was talking about. “No, Chef.”
Neither one of us was surprised when Mrs. Alden pushed through the swinging door.
“Charlotte, we have one more for dinner.” She did not look thrilled. In fact, she looked as if she needed to quickly and efficiently disassemble somebody into his component parts. “Can you take care of it?”
I deferred to Reese, who mentally portioned and plated beef before nodding. “That will be fine, Mrs. Alden.”
“Thank goodness. I can’t imagine…” She cut herself off with a frown not meant for either Reese or me. “Thank you.” She walked out again. The door swung silently shut behind her, and I smelled smoke in her wake.
“That’s not good,” I said.
“Somehow, I’m bettin’ whoever showed up is not her best girlfriend.”
“No bet.” Voices sputtered to life out in the dining room. China and glass clinked, but slowly. It was a lot harder to turn away from that door and its inviting little diamond of a window than it should have been.
“This isn’t going to turn out to be one of those happy homes housing dreadful secrets, is it?” Reese held his palm over the grill to check the temperature. “Because if it is, I want time and a half.”
“Cook the steak, Reese. I’ll deal with the crazy rich folks.”
“That’s why you get your name on the jacket.” He started laying steaks on the fire. If there is a more delicious scent than the first cloud of steam rising to accompany the sizzle of good beef, I don’t know what it is. “But I’ll tell you, there’s something weirder than usual going on here,” Reese went on as the last steak joined its brothers. “I mean, you’ve seen what’s weird about this kitchen, right?”
“Aside from the fact it keeps collecting vampires and witches?”
“Everything in here is brand damned spanking new. I mean everything. Dishes, appliances, glasses. There’s nothing in here older than a couple of months.”
“Huh. Well, maybe when Mrs. Alden was changing her closets for spring, she decided to change her kitchen over too.”
“Nobody goes clean sweep on a kitchen. Everybody’s got something they keep; old coffee mugs or the family recipe books, something. This place, it’s like being on the movie set of a kitchen. I’m telling you, it’s weird.”
I agreed it was weird, primarily so he would close down and focus on the steaks. Reese is from Chicago, where beef is a sacred thing, and he had prepared the rib eyes according to his most stringent standards. With Reese, you do not put anything other than a sprinkle of salt on beef lest you sully the purity of the meat, and you do not cook it one second longer than is utterly necessary. In fact, ideally, you show the cow a Bic lighter, and dig in.
Reese whistled under his breath as he stood before the grill, coaxing his steaks to their grandest height. I plated salad and ladled duck’s blood soup into bowls. Out front, the conversation rumbled on at a better pace. I started to relax and let the scent of cooking steak fill me with optimism.
Too damned soon as it turned out.
Movement caught the corner of my eye. Out past the patio lights, something flitted through the Aldens’ terraced garden. I jerked my head around and stared at the shadowed bushes. The silver and gold lights of Manhattan glowed against the night sky like distant fireflies, and I saw nothing, except some waving branches. Somewhere, a car door slammed. Then, the house door slammed. Voices shouted. Reese froze, tongs raised.
Gabriel Renault, with brother Jacques right on his heels, barged through the swinging door in a cloud of cold and frantic fear.
“They’re after us!”
12
“In here.” I yanked open one of the empty cupboards under the sink.
Gabriel ducked down, knotting himself up with the kind of speed only nightbloods and yoga masters can manage. Jacques stared for one split second and lit out the French doors.
Running footsteps and outraged shrieks sounded in the dining room. I swore and kicked the cabinet door shut. The slam barely had a chance to fade before two bulked-out men in matching blue suits burst into the kitchen to find me stirring potato
es, and Reese bent over the sizzling steaks.
“Where’d they go?” shouted the taller of the suits.
“What the hell…!” Reese demanded.
“This is your fault!” screamed Deanna from the other side of the door. “You called them!”
“Where’d they go?” The shorter suit bellowed. Reese raised his tongs as if to point, but I held up my hand.
“Who’s asking? And what’re you all doing in my kitchen?” I am a chef. All kitchens I cook in are my kitchen. This is a rule.
“Deanna, control,” said Mrs. Alden from the dining room. “We need—”
“We do not need! I’m sick of this!”
“Oh, fer chrissakes.” The shorter suit yanked an ID wallet from his pocket and flashed it in front of my face just long enough for me to read IMMIGRATION AND CUSTOMS ENFORCEMENT.
ICE was chasing after undocumented nightbloods in a witch’s home? At some point, this was going to be funny.
“You can’t do this!” Trudy banged into the kitchen from the dining room and planted her hands on her hips. “If you’ve got a warrant, I want it on the counter, now!”
“And it’s another one!” Taller Suit yanked a sheaf of papers out of his jacket and tossed them to Trudy, who caught them as they smacked against her chest. He turned back to Reese. “Where are they?”
“Came and went about ten seconds ago.” Reese pointed his tongs toward the door to the side porch. Not that either one of us has ever dealt with ICE raiding a kitchen before. Yes, that is my story and yes, I’m sticking to it.
The ICE guys swore. Taller Suit yelled something into his sleeve as he slammed open the side door and vanished outside. I stared after them.
The cupboard door rattled.
“He’s got a passport!” Deanna was shouting. “They’re both registered! They’ll be out before morning!”
“That’s not all they’ve got, Adrienne,” said that man’s deep voice. Memory told me I’d heard it before, but it didn’t tell me where. “They’ve also just robbed your house.”