Let Them Eat Stake: A Vampire Chef Novel

by Sarah Zettel

  “Reese? One sec.”

  “Yes, Chef?” Reese tried to turn toward me while still keeping a wary eye on Zoe as she vanished into the kitchen.

  “You said there’re only a couple trucks out there doing haute noir? Are any of them actually operated by vampires?”

  “Don’t know offhand, but I can find out.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  He paused. “Why am I finding this out?”

  “Because I think one of those vampires might be Jacques Renault, and I want a little word with him about the behavior of his relatives.”

  “Just you, or you and Chet?” Reese slowly rubbed his hands together. Translation: You’d better have backup on this or I’m not moving off this spot.

  But for once, having it hinted that I might possibly need help for any given enterprise failed to raise my hackles. “Chet, and a certain vampire journalist who both just happen to be due to come around here tonight.” Or they would be as soon as I made a couple of phone calls.

  Reese thoughtfully cracked the knuckles of his tattooed hands. “I’ll see what I can find out, Chef.”

  He also headed into the dining room. I slumped onto one of the bar stools and tried to suppress the urge to pour myself a scotch. Alcohol was not the answer. It was never going to be. I hopped off the stool and circled round the bar. The fridge back there held bottled water, like just about every fridge in the place did. I cracked one open and chugged down a healthy portion.

  Slowly, I set the bottle down on the bar. Alcohol was not the answer. You could overdo it on alcohol. It could even kill you.

  It was also, in its pure form, a colorless liquid. I looked at the water bottle; I looked at the rows of liquor bottles on the shelf behind the bar. I thought about that scrap of a clue from Oscar’s office, and the second line, the one that looked like “CH” and a squiggle that I’d thought looked like a numeral three. CH3 couldn’t be a word, but it could be a chemical.

  I yanked my smartphone out of my pocket and fired up Google. I entered CH3 into the little white oval, and hit Search. I waited. I drank more water. I listened to the voices drifting from the kitchen. I didn’t want to be right. I didn’t want to be right.

  The little Search window cleared, and I got my list of answers. The first was an online encyclopedia article about methane. The second was a Web page for Channel 3. But the third was an entry for methyl alcohol.

  Methyl alcohol, also called methanol, or wood alcohol, was colorless and when ingested, could produce dizziness, blindness, and death. These sounded a lot like the symptoms of a stroke.

  It was easy to get, and widely traded. You could dissolve all kinds of things in it, I read, which was why it was used as a base for everything, such as paint thinner, and even perfume—or maybe even antivampire potions.

  I closed the Search window, and hit REDIAL on O’Grady’s number.

  “Chef Caine,” he answered immediately. “What is it this time?”

  “Oscar was poisoned,” I said, looking at my water bottle, which was just like the one I had at my station, and just like the one I left open on my desk almost every night. I thought about how I could easily knock back half a bottle before I noticed something smelled funny, because at this point I was never paying attention. I pictured Oscar realizing he’d stepped over the line in his dealings with the Aldens and staggering around his office as he tried to stuff incriminating evidence into the shredder before calling 911, and not quite making it. “And I know how they did it.”

  25

  Of course, O’Grady did not rush off with the crime scene tape. He made me repeat everything I suspected, and I knew he was writing it all down. He thanked me and hung up. Now, it was a waiting game, yet again.

  Fortunately, the sun was setting and Nightlife was gearing up, so I had plenty to keep me busy. I also had one or two little agenda items of my own I fully intended to complete before the night was over.

  I left messages for Anatole and for Chet to meet me at the restaurant at closing time. Neither one would be thrilled to see the other, but I’d deal with that later. I also geared up my most carefully neutral voice and called the Aldens, saying that I was needed in Manhattan to continue to work on event coordination and that I would be calling them with updates in the morning.

  The real problem was Brendan still wasn’t answering his phone, and for the first time in my adult life, I felt almost too keyed up to cook. Fortunately, word had spread among my staff that I was in on the news about the Times. So, instead of a jumpy, worried line crew looking over their shoulders at me, I had a bunch of pros intent on testing themselves. Zoe and Reese cracked the whip for me in the kitchen. Suchai was on the case in the front of the house, and the dining room was full to the brim. No matter what happened tomorrow, today we were doing great.

  Despite all this, I couldn’t relax into my work. I’d slipped my phone in my pocket next to my spray bottle, and I couldn’t ignore its weight jiggling around in there as I moved from the pass to the hot line and back again. I also couldn’t ignore the way it wasn’t ringing, and wasn’t ringing. For the first nonringing hour, I silently cursed warlocks and not-quite-boyfriends in my head. Then, I started praying to whoever looked after warlocks and chefs that Brendan was okay wherever he’d gotten to. Then I swore I was going to kick his ass up and down Tenth Avenue, and then break up with him. Oscar was dead, and Adrienne Alden was maybe a poisoner who was framing her daughter, or maybe Scott Alden was doing the framing, or maybe Karina was the poisoner and was getting help covering up from her father. Gabriel had maybe murdered his sire, and how dare Brendan not call me with all these maybe’s going on?

  Then I started promising that I’d never, ever, forget to call him again, if he’d just call me now. Just one little call.

  But that wasn’t the real agony. The real agony came at ten twenty when I felt my phone buzz against my hip, and I didn’t have hands free to answer it. It was a full ten minutes before I could snatch it out of my pocket and read the text message.

  am fine on lead call l8tr. bm

  I just about dissolved into a little puddle right there on the line, but I recovered myself and stuffed the phone back in my pocket. “I’m going to kill him,” I told Zoe.

  “Yes, Chef,” she said. “Marty! Pick up twenty!”

  The next message came at twelve fifteen: still fine lead playing out

  “So very dead.” I shoved the phone back in my pocket. “Eighty-six the tuna! We’re out of tuna!”

  The next one came at one thirty-three: still fine staking out my guy wish u wr here.

  “Dead, dead, dead.” I grabbed the squeeze bottle of white truffle oil.

  “I wish he’d send you some bad news so you’d quit wanting to kill him,” said Reese. “The boy just plain don’t know how to treat his lady.”

  “Gimme two pumpkin soups!” I hollered, tearing a ticket off the machine and shoving it onto the dupe slide. “And where the hell’s my duck for fifteen? Oh, and Reese? Shut up!”

  “Working, Chef!”

  Chet and Anatole showed up right at two a.m., just as Robert was locking the front door. And I’d been right. They were not happy to see each other. At least, Chet was not happy to see Anatole. Anatole just bowed to my brother and gave his annoying and inscrutable smile some extra airtime.

  “Yes, Chet,” I said with a sigh as my brother opened his mouth. “I will tell you what the hell he’s doing here.” I hadn’t had a new message from Brendan for the last twenty-seven minutes, and my shoulder blades were going all twitchy trying to stop my hand from reaching for my phone yet again. “But upstairs, okay?”

  “Good evening, Charlotte. Caine,” said Anatole, cool and absolutely unruffled. “Upstairs?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I don’t have space at Nightlife for a private office, and there are times, such as during closing, when the dining room’s as full of staff as the kitchen. Although you might not have guessed it, I do also just plain get tired of hanging around t
he back alley. So, over the course of the past few months, I had manufactured a place where I could get a little privacy. I led Anatole and Chet up three flights of underlit stairs that smelled of various kinds of smoke, out onto the roof, and into to my own private garden.

  The wind gusted hard, ruffling my too-short hair and carrying with it the smells of exhaust and impending summer. It rattled the plastic sheeting over beds of baby lettuce and microgreens. The herbs, bush beans, and, most importantly, the tomatoes, stood in their own boxes, waiting for sunlight to replace the tarnished silver of streetlight that reflected off the glass skyscrapers rising all around us.

  “What’s all this?” asked Chet, gesturing at my greenery.

  “This is what I’ve been up to since you left.” It wasn’t anything close to what the Aldens had, but I’d nailed together the frames for those boxes, helped to haul bags of soil up those three flights of stairs, and set up the blue compost bin by the air duct. This garden was as much mine as the kitchen downstairs.

  “This is you breaking about fifty municipal codes,” Chet shot back. “Good going, Charlotte.”

  Sensing an impending and possibly lengthy sibling-only digression, Anatole intervened. “Enchanting,” he murmured. “What else have you been keeping secret from me? Us?” he corrected himself as Chet narrowed his eyes.

  Sharing is not something I do naturally. But that had to stop. If I was to put an end to the mess the Aldens had gotten me and Brendan into, I needed both Chet and Anatole, whether I wanted to need them or not.

  So, I told them how O’Grady suspected Oscar’s death might be murder. I told them he suspected it might have something to do with Adrienne Alden, because of the death of an NYU student that happened around the time of the Five Points Riot. I pointed out that Adrienne Alden and Trudy Lyons had been close friends, except not permanent ones, because Trudy had been trying to warn Adrienne that her daughters were out of control and was chafing at being underpaid. Then there was the fact that Adrienne was probably trying to control Deanna, the important magical heiress daughter, using a love potion. Except it was Karina, the smart, successful T-typ daughter who introduced the Renaults to Deanna and who had access to a poisonous substance that could mimic the disorientation and blindness that accompanied a stroke. Add to this the detail that Gabriel Renault had an NYU class ring on his hand, or at least he had before Lloyd Maddox stole it. But although he stole the ring, Lloyd left Gabriel lying in peace, near a shoe box full of Henri’s accessories. Oh, and Lloyd had fired Trudy, who was revenging herself by making me a love potion antidote.

  When I finally ran out of breath, Anatole had both eyebrows raised. Chet, on the other hand, whistled.

  “Wow. Charlotte, that all makes no kind of sense whatsoever.”

  “I beg to differ,” said Anatole.

  “There’s a surprise,” muttered Chet.

  Anatole ignored him. “It explains a great deal about a phone call I received from Henri Renault.”

  “Renault called you?” Chet said this to me, as if he couldn’t believe I had left out this detail from my story. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but it was already getting to be one hell of a long story, and I wanted to find out what Anatole had to add to it.

  “Renault claims he has the legendary Popeth Arall, and he has offered to sell it to me.”

  “I thought you didn’t know what the Arall was.”

  “I never said that,” Anatole reminded me with gentle smugness. “I said I didn’t know it belonged to the Maddoxes. The legend of the weapon itself has been around for centuries.”

  Chet gestured impatiently. “And Henri said he’d sell it to you. And…?”

  “Actually, he said he was going to auction it off, but if I wanted it, I could have first chance.”

  “What did you say to him?” asked Chet.

  “I told him I would consider it.”

  “Does he know you don’t actually have any money?” I put in.

  Anatole’s shrug was perfectly noncommittal. “He does not believe it. Anyone as old as I must have amassed a considerable fortune.”

  “He’s supposed to be pretty old himself. Why is he shilling for money?”

  “This is one among many questions I asked myself. Henri is not as subtle as he thinks he is, but neither is he stupid. In the past, he has run some very long games, and he has used his pretty children as major players.”

  A hard laugh burst out of me as I pictured the monocled little vampire, who couldn’t keep his hands off the help, trying to go head to head with Anatole. “Henri Renault thinks he can con you?”

  That earned me a small smile. “Your faith in my judgment is most flattering, Charlotte. But no, I don’t think Henri believes he can con—to use your word—me. I am certain he believes he has the Arall. He heard it was a weapon, he stole a weapon, and he is trying to sell it. Which leaves me with the question, should I try to buy it?”

  Chet shoved his hair back, only to have the wind plaster it right back across his forehead, and glowered at us both. He’d been working on that glower. I could feel its cold pricking against my skin. It was an odd reminder that my baby brother was growing up, in a nightblood kind of way. “Will one of you explain to me why we’re standing up here and not sharing any of this priceless info with O’Grady and the Paranormal Squadron?” And that was another one. Six months ago, he never would have suggested going to the police for something like this. It was, I had to admit, a damned good question.

  “To begin with,” said Anatole, “I avoid talking to O’Grady if at all possible. Also, because what will make Charlotte’s life easier is much more important to me than what will make his life easier.” Anatole had a highly personalized code of conduct. I suppose it was a good thing to see it skewing in my favor, but I couldn’t shake the sensation it gave me of the roof shifting underfoot. “What will make Charlotte’s life easier is finding out what this thing Henri has actually is, and quietly returning the stolen property to the Maddoxes.”

  “She’s set to ruin the wedding, so how is this going to help her?”

  “Lloyd Maddox wants the wedding ruined, so that is not an issue. If she also quietly returns the Arall, he will be more than ready to see that she is left alone so she will have no reason to go talking to the police about any little behavior problems on the part of his grandchildren. A state of affairs I am also happy to help facilitate.”

  “Try again, Sevarin,” I said so Chet wouldn’t have to. “You just want to know what Henri’s got.”

  Anatole shrugged. Clearly, this little difference of interpretation was of no importance. “I told Henri I would meet with him tomorrow night and we would bargain then. It is my intent to get whatever he has, and allow you, Charlotte, to hand it back to the Maddox clan. You will, I hope, tell them who helped retrieve their property.”

  My mouth opened before I had any words. I closed it again. There still weren’t any words. There was something else going on behind those impenetrable green eyes. No one can do enigmatic like an old vampire, and Anatole was pouring all he had into the act. He stood there smiling just enough to show the tiniest corner of a fang. And all at once, I understood.

  “Oh, em effing gee,” I whispered. “You’re doing this to get to Lloyd Maddox. If you find out what’s going on with the Renaults, he’ll owe you a favor!”

  “I’ve been at his throat, and I’ve been a thorn in his side. I decided to try a new tactic. It is a new age, after all.”

  “You’re going to kill him with kindness,” Chet said, and for the first time I heard admiration creep into his tone.

  Anatole’s smile broadened, and smug satisfaction radiated from him like heat off a flat-top grill. “And there is not one thing he can do about it.”

  “So where are you going to pull off this fast shuffle you’ve got planned?” Because even to a hardened control freak such as myself, it seemed the best place to be for such an encounter was well out of the way.

  Anatole, however, was not going to give me the option.
“I thought Nightlife after closing would make an excellent location for an exchange of this nature. Neither too private nor too public.”

  “Nightlife?” I stared at him. “You want me to leave you and a thieving nightblood in my restaurant while he’s trying to use you as a fence for stolen magic?”

  “Actually, I was hoping you would both be there. I prefer backup for such operations.”

  Skepticism strong enough to wilt my lettuces oozed out of Chet. “You don’t think Henri’s going to get suspicious to see me and my sister at your little bargaining session?”

  “I think he’s rather expecting it.” Anatole smiled, waiting for me to catch up. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “You told him I was your girlfriend, didn’t you?”

  “That is an approximate translation of what I told him, yes.”

  Chet was giving me a look so pointed, I could have staked him with it. I waved him back. I could handle this one, and turned my best you’re-late-for-your-shift glower onto the senior nightblood. “Anatole…”

  “It was necessary to impress upon him you were not to be interfered with. I am afraid our Henri Renault is woefully behind the times. There are only a few connections between nightblood and dayblood that he recognizes, and those are all proprietary.”

  That might even have been the truth, but it didn’t make me back down on my glower at all, even though I sensed that it wasn’t quite getting through to Anatole. I gave it up. I ran my hand through my hair and stared out at the city. We had to get to Henri. We, I, had to find out what he’d actually stolen, as well as what he knew about Adrienne Alden and all the rest of it. At the same time, if I let Henri into Nightlife, there could be real trouble. The last time I’d gotten mixed up in a showdown with nightbloods, there’d been fire involved.

  “I’m there the whole time,” said Chet to Anatole.

  “What!” I answered with what was apparently an expected level of calm, because Chet just shrugged.