by Sarah Zettel
“Are we warding against vampires or against grandfathers?” I asked.
“Yes.” He said it with utter seriousness. Brendan never works magic casually. In fact, the few times I’d seen him actually use his powers, either somebody’d been in immediate danger, or he’d been really cranky about it, or both.
“Is there anything I need to do?” I asked. “Or should I just head downstairs and let you, um, work?”
“Actually, I’ll be able to build it more tightly if you’re here, since you’re ultimately what the ward’s going to protect.”
“So I just sit here?”
“I’m afraid so.” Brendan crouched down beside the black bag he’d carried up with my suitcase, opened the catch, and pulled out a stick of chalk, and a Ziploc bag of what looked like kosher salt. Clearly we were going for the high-tech warlockery here.
“Brendan?” I settled back onto the window seat.
“Hmm?” He started sketching symbols on the floorboards in front of the threshold, and dusting salt on top of them.
“You don’t like magic much.”
“It’s not that I don’t like it; I just think it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Harry Potter and Hogwarts and all that sound great in theory, but when you actually give adolescent kids the power to alter other people’s reality, it gets messy.”
“Did you ever get messy?”
“Yes. More than once.” He sat back on his heels and waited for me to ask more. I didn’t, and he went back to work with the salt and chalk.
When the symbols and the seasoning were the way he wanted, Brendan stood up and pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. He’d explained to me once that magic workers tended to be sympathetic to a particular element; earth, air, fire or water. The Maddoxes were mostly attuned to fire, although every so often one of them came closer to water or air.
Brendan struck the match and turned the flame inward toward his palm, like Europeans do with lit cigarettes. He began to whisper, soft and fast, and, I was fairly sure, not in English. He walked from corner to corner across the room, his hands cupped close enough around that flame that my palms began to heat up in sympathy. The flame didn’t flicker. The smell of sulfur and smoke wafted around him, too strong to be coming from one tiny match. My skin prickled and I smelled something new; something warm, familiar, and strong, like the sidewalk smell after a warm rain. There was a taste too; cinnamon and ginger, and a little bit of chili. Who knew magic came in flavors?
Brendan came to a halt in the threshold. He raised the flame high overhead and ran it down both walls and across the floor to trace the shape of the door. Then he stepped into the hall. The match winked out, taking scents and flavors with it.
I blinked, startled. “Is that it?”
Brendan held up his hand, palm toward me, as if running it over an invisible wall. “That’s it. You can come out if you want.”
I did, coming to stand beside him in the hallway. I didn’t know what to say, so I went with the obvious. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” We stood there for another awkward minute, each trying to signal to the other the conflicting desire for another kiss and the knowledge that it was not a good idea right now, considering the circumstances.
“Talk to you tomorrow?” I asked.
“Talk to you tomorrow,” he agreed.
Then we had to stand there another minute, acknowledging that the message had been received, and then for a final minute after that, because from the get-go neither one of us had ever known how to say good-bye in the middle of this kind of silence.
Finally, he started down the stairs, and I went back into my comfortable little room, changed into my favorite oversized pajamas, got into bed, and waited for the memory of Brendan’s kiss to fade away enough for me to roll over and get some sleep.
I waited a very long time.
15
It was barely ten in the morning when I made my way down the back stairs, tying my bandanna around my head and wondering how long it would be before my hair got long enough to braid again. Despite the events of the previous evening, or maybe because of them, I’d slept pretty well. Now the scent of fresh-brewed coffee drew me like a mirage in the desert. I shouldered my way into the kitchen in time to see Reese standing by the fridge, clutching Hank, my line cook, by both shoulders.
“You’re sure?” Reese’s face lit up with a huge grin. “We really got i—”
But Reese spotted me and snapped back to attention as if he were still in the army.
“Morning, Reese. Hank.” I did my best casual glide into the suddenly very quiet room. “What’d we get?”
“Bacon quiche!” squeaked Hank, shoving golden brown and delicious egg pie across the counter toward me. “We made two! But they only ate one! Not as many people to breakfast!”
“Those bridesmaids are all watching their weight,” added Reese, who was suddenly very involved in pouring a cup of coffee. “Here you go, Chef. Just the way you like it.” He pushed the mug to sit beside the quiche.
That I was able to leave both wonderfully fragrant breakfast items on the counter and ignore my frantic stomach for a full twenty seconds was a tribute to the level of self-control necessary to the professional chef. Or perhaps it was a tribute to the level of suspicion being around one too damned many mysteries can raise. “What’s going on, guys?” I asked.
“Nothing!” Hank’s throat was so tight, it was bugging his eyes out. “Gotta get back, you know? I’m helping Marie with the bread. Think maybe, like, switch over to pastry. ‘Bye!” And he was gone out the side door.
I turned to Reese. “What’s going on, Reese?”
“Nothing, Chef.”
I won’t say the penny dropped then, but it definitely rattled. “Does this have anything to do with a food truck?”
“No. Why? Did you change your mind about a truck for Nightlife?”
“No! We are not getting a truck!”
“’Cause I’m just saying, if we had a truck…”
“You’re getting a truck?” Trudy pushed her way through the door from the back stairs, carrying a bucket full of spray bottles and rags. “Those new foodie trucks are just so cool.”
I was truly beginning to hate all these doors. “We are not getting a truck.”
“You should.” Trudy pulled up a stool to the counter. “I had these Belgian waffles from this one truck the other day. Oh my God, I coulda just died and gone to heaven right there. Dibs on the coffee.” She picked up my mug and downed a large gulp. I did not snatch it out of her hands. I want points for that, too.
“See, that’s what I keep saying.” Reese emphasized his approval by passing Trudy a slice of quiche—the one he’d originally cut for me. Not that it made any difference to me, of course. “People love a meal off a truck. And they’ll line up around the block, if you just Tweet your location, and FlashNews is setting up a special food truck station for all the blogs.”
I faced Reese, informing him with my eyes that we would most definitely be continuing this conversation later. “Has Mrs. Alden been asking for me?”
Trudy glanced toward the dining room door and shook her head. “No. She’s been on the phone most of the morning.”
“About the theft?” If she was going to take my coffee, she could darn well give me some information in return.
“Theft?” Reese paused in cutting off another slice of quiche. “They got robbed? Jesus, you’d think a place like this would be wired up its…butt.”
“It is,” said Trudy. “Whoever did this used the ICE raid for distraction.”
Grim reality surged through me as the caffeine took hold. “So, you may as well know, the wedding is probably at least postponed,” I told Reese. “It might be totally off. We’re just waiting on the word from the clients.”
Reese swore. He then sliced the rest of the way through the quiche and set the new portion on a waiting plate. “Chef, nobody said anything about it at breakfast.”
“You’re kidding?” I
looked to Trudy for confirmation, and she nodded.
“All the girls were just going on about fittings and dye jobs and mani-pedis and what sounds like it’s gonna be the Mother of All Bachelorette Parties.” Reese muttered something under his breath that sounded a whole lot like “crazy effin’ rich people.”
“But that’s imp—” Footsteps cut me off.
“Oops.” Trudy swallowed her last bite of quiche. “Here it comes.”
Mrs. Alden walked in from the dining room, and her gaze swept across us. As quick perusals went, this one was precise and comprehensive, noting how we were arranged and who had been talking with whom—including Trudy. Make that especially Trudy.
“Ms. Lyons, I thought you were going to take care of the guest rooms.” Mrs. Alden’s words carried a keenly honed edge.
Slowly, making sure her employer saw each movement, Trudy got to her feet. “I said I’d get that done after the foyer, Mrs. Alden.” The women faced each other. No, they squared off. Except for their age, these two were direct opposites. Work had pushed Trudy’s willowy body into a permanent slump, despite her legs being still long and straight. The veins and knuckles stood out on her rough hands. She wore no makeup on her puckered face, and she had allowed her braided hair to turn iron gray. Elegant Adrienne stood in front of her in a pink and apricot twinset, probably ready for church. Her hair was dyed perfectly black, her face as smooth as the spa and Bloomingdale’s cosmetics counter could make it, her hands impeccably cared for. But between these two brewed the intimate, brutal anger that can build only between very old friends, or very close family.
Mrs. Alden broke first. She turned to me, and I got to watch her pull that anger back. “Chef Caine, may I have a word?”
“Of course.” I didn’t bother with my notebook. I didn’t care what Reese thought he’d heard. There was no way this wedding was going to happen any time soon. As I followed my soon-to-be-former client through the dining room and up the main stairs to the living room, I looked through my mental ledger to that place where I’d penciled in the two hundred K, and fondly kissed it good-bye.
“Now.” Mrs. Alden took her seat in the chair by the fireplace and gestured toward the sofa. I sat. “I don’t suppose you heard that, among all the other disturbances last night, this house was robbed.” She looked at me very steadily as she spoke, letting me know she was giving me a chance to preserve appearances. I decided to take it.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I answered politely. “I imagine this changes things.”
“Only in that the groom’s party will be smaller than was planned. Otherwise, we are moving forward.”
I ran that back and played it over again. Then I added a backbeat. Your house was robbed of an important magical artifact, possibly the important magical artifact during a faked ICE raid. The sire of the groom probably took it, and he has since vanished. But you’re moving forward with the wedding, and you are waiting for me to give you a polite, professional response.
This was one of those moments when I really wished I had Miss Manners on speed dial because I had no idea whatsoever how to answer this. “I…see.”
“No, you don’t, but that doesn’t matter.” The edge had come back to Mrs. Alden’s tone. I couldn’t tell whether going ahead with the wedding was her idea or not. Either way, it had pushed her very close to her personal limits. “What I need to know is, are you willing to continue as chef and caterer?”
Down to the very depths of my being, I knew staying here would be a bad idea. Just as I knew there was not enough money on the face of the earth to turn it into a good one. I should walk away. Let whatever the hell was playing out here play without me. Who cared what it was?
Unfortunately, no matter how many times I asked myself that question, one answer came back. Who cared? I did. I had a hunch I had been deliberately brought into this by person or persons unknown, and I wasn’t leaving until I found out who, and why. Because there was no way it was just for my knife skills, good looks, and tapped-out bank account.
“If you want us to continue, Mrs. Alden, we are ready to do that.”
She let out a long breath I’d been totally unaware she’d been holding. “Thank you, Chef Caine,” she said, and I was pretty sure she meant it. “Then we’ll be doing the cake tasting this afternoon as scheduled?”
I agreed and let myself be dismissed. Feeling strangely light-headed, I walked carefully down the back stairs. Either I had just witnessed the most incredible display of motherly sacrifice, or the rich really were different from the rest of us. Because nobody I hung out with on a regular basis would go ahead with a wedding when the family treasures had just been looted by the groom’s relations.
“What happened, Chef?” asked Reese as I pushed my way back into the kitchen. He sat at the marble-topped island with Trudy, the coffee thermos set squarely between them. “You okay?”
“No, I’m not.” I poured myself coffee and drank a big slug.
“They’re not canceling, are they?” said Trudy.
I shook my head and helped myself to the lone slice of quiche they’d left behind. There are those who lose their appetites when faced with stress and mysteries. I am not one of them.
“No, of course not,” Trudy said to her coffee. “That would be sensible.”
“Are they always like this?” asked Reese.
“No. Not always. Just when it gets close to home. Then it’s all to hell. Scott will do anything to keep everyone happy. Adrienne will do anything to keep everything organized, and Deanna will do everything to poke the screaming monkeys and Karina…” She stopped. “And you don’t need to know any of this.”
Actually I did, but this was not the time to disagree with her. If Trudy thought I was actively snooping on her employers, there was a good chance she’d close up tight.
“I take it the Renaults didn’t…make it back last night?” I asked, poking at the quiche to test its consistency, and carefully not looking at anything else.
“I’m told Gabriel came in just before sunrise, but the others…” Trudy shook her head. “I assume ICE still has them.”
Or they’re on the run with their haul, whatever it was. But I kept this to myself.
“So, what all went missing?” asked Reese.
I took another bite of quiche. “The thing I know about was a gun, an antique pistol off the mantel.”
Trudy nodded. “If they lost anything else, they’re keeping quiet about it.”
“So.” Reese planted his elbows on the counter. “The family got ripped off by the groom’s blood relations, and we’re all going to ignore it like Great Aunt Maxie’s been breaking wind again?”
“Something like that, yeah,” I admitted. “Listen, Reese. If you want out of this, no harm, no foul. I’ll handle it.” I had no idea how, but I would.
“What do I look like? I said I’d take the mission; I’m taking the mission.”
“It’s a catering job, not a hill.”
“And your point is?”
Suddenly, Trudy was on her feet. “I’d better get to those…bedrooms. Adrienne’s started checking up on my work.” She clumped out through the door to the back stairs, but not before both of us noticed she had tears on her cheeks.
“You want me to—” Reese jerked his head to the back stairs door as it flapped shut.
“No.” I drew my gaze away from the door, but slowly. “We’ll figure her out later. For now, we just keep going.” I downed the last of my coffee and put the mug in the sink. “I’ve got to hit the Terminal Market and talk with some additional suppliers. I’ll be back in time for the tasting.”
“Okay. I’ll keep it going here.”
“Thanks. And Reese?” I said as I collected my purse and notebook.
“Yes, Chef?”
I hesitated. This was not a question I wanted to ask, and the words were not lining up neatly in my head. “If something was really wrong at Nightlife, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”
Disappointment slumped h
is professionally square shoulders. “You know I would.”
I did, and I left there with an outsized load of guilt for even asking that question trailing along behind me.
My market business actually went more quickly than I’d expected. When you’ve got a big budget, suddenly the suppliers are sitting you down to their best beverages and pulling out special items that you might just happen to be interested in.
As I was leaving the market and heading for the subway, I called the house so I could make sure all remained quiet on the Alden front. Reese duly reported that Mrs. Alden had returned from church with a handful of select guests who polished off a luncheon of red snapper fillet with wild rice and a salad of summer greens. Deanna had put in a brief appearance, but she left in a cloud of bridesmaids. Mr. Alden had not been seen since breakfast, but he was expected for dinner. Otherwise, the house remained peaceful. Lloyd Maddox was nowhere to be seen, but neither, apparently was Trudy.
After I hung up with Reese, I dodged across the street while thumbing the number for Nightlife. I had no real doubt that Marie had everything in hand for the cake tasting, but the control freak in me was even stronger than my faith in my pastry chef.
“Nightlife?” Zoe picked up on the third ring.
Zoe! “Zoe?” My stride faltered, causing a student type with a backpack to have to dodge, and swear.
“Hello, Chef,” said Zoe.
“What’s wrong?” I demanded as I sidestepped out of the pedestrian river. “What’re you doing in so early?” Panic bubbled in the pit of my stomach. It was just going on one. There was no reason for Zoe to be in the kitchen until four, three at the earliest, unless something had gone wrong.
“Nothing’s wrong. Did you want to talk to Marie?”
“Yes, but…”
“She’s right here.”
“Z…”
“Good morning, Chef Caine.” Marie’s you’d-better-not-be-wasting-my-time voice said. “What can I do for you?”