Let Them Eat Stake: A Vampire Chef Novel (5 page)

It was a typical night, really. I was in my groove, and after the whole throw-me-for-nineteen-different-kinds-of- loops afternoon, it felt really good.

By the time Robert finally snapped shut the lock on Nightlife’s front door, my crew members were tired and
swearing at one another, but in a good way. I was finally able to take off my apron, open the neck of my coat, drop into my creaking desk chair and take a long swig of water. It was standard to have a bottle or cup at your station, but on a busy night, you could literally go for hours without having a hand free to reach for it. Around me, my crew members cleaned their stations and wrapped up the remaining
mise en place
to stash away for tomorrow. Satisfaction hung in the air with the exhaustion and the fading smells of good food. Plus, if I squinted at just the right angle, I couldn’t even see the stack of unpaid invoices on my desk.

“So, Chef, what went wrong in Brooklyn?”

Zoe was standing in front of my desk, with her arms folded and her no-nonsense attitude on. Executive Sous-Chef Zoe Vamadev is a petite young woman who has a critical eye on the level of Simon Cowell with a toothache. Her parents are from Bengal and Bali, and she came to the United States by way of Bangkok, Amsterdam, Edinburgh and London. She speaks more languages than a career diplomat, and she’s a good enough chef to give me a serious run for my money, even in my own kitchen.

“Nothing,” I told her. “At least, not much.”

Zoe held my gaze a good ten seconds longer, just to make sure I understood she knew exactly when she was being distracted and to suggest that I might want to amend my answer. In another life, Zoe would have made a fabulous trial lawyer.

“So, we are doing this?” she asked.

“Who said we weren’t?”

Zoe waved her hand vaguely. “You know how it is when the chef has her frowny face on. People start wondering…”

“My
frowny
face? Who says I’ve got a
frowny
face?” Because clearly there were problems with discipline on my line I had not previously been aware of.

Zoe ignored me with an ease that was truly disturbing. “The
point is, Chef, we are still doing the Alden wedding, right?”

“Yes, we are still doing the Alden wedding.”

“So, what went wrong in Brooklyn?”

I decided if she could ignore me, I could return the favor. “Make sure you, Reese, and Marie are all here by two tomorrow,” I said. “We’re going to be doing some heavy-duty schedule reshuffling. I’ll need Reese and a backup at the Aldens’ until the wedding. And I’ll need you to be ready to take charge here.”

Zoe gave me the yes-Chef, and got back to work on the slow, detailed work of closing up a kitchen for the night. I let her go, but not without a twinge or two of conscience. I did owe her an answer. I just didn’t have one. While I buried my nose in close-of-day paperwork, I turned all the events of the afternoon over in my head and came up with absolutely nothing. To make matters worse, Zoe’s question seemed to have gotten stuck on infinite replay in my head. What had gone wrong in Brooklyn? Nothing major. Nothing real. Except that I was there at all.

I was able to keep myself looking good and busy until the last of the closers, including Zoe, waved good-bye and disappeared out the back door. Only then did I push my chair back and run both hands through my hair. I used to have hair down to my waist, but after that fire last year, I had to get most of it chopped off, and I still felt strangely naked without it.

There was one way to get the answers I wanted, and that was to go straight to Oscar Simmons himself. I even knew where he’d be—the same place the rest of Manhattan’s chefs were at three in the morning: a crummy little bar called Charlie’s Blue Plate. This was dead convenient, because if there was one thing I needed more than answers after the day I’d had, it was beer.

Happy thoughts of food and alcohol being served to me
were interrupted by a knock at the back door, followed by a familiar voice.

“Hello, Charlotte?”

“Chet!” I was on my feet and around my desk in time to hold out my arms for my undead younger brother as he strolled into the kitchen.

“Hey, C3!” Chet used my old family nickname. We hugged, with enthusiasm, but a whole lot of care. On my part this was because Chet’s a vampire and consequently he’s light enough for me to pull off his feet if I’m not careful. On Chet’s part because, well, he’s a vampire and could very easily crack my ribs.

Chet was turned nightblood at nineteen. As a result, he’s an eternal and very pale college freshman; cheerful, good-looking, possessed of questionable judgment and a “why the hell not?” attitude. Despite this, or maybe because of it, he’s also recently become a successful businessman in his own right.

I stepped back and gave my brother an appraising look. Chet and I share the family’s light blue eyes and dishwater blond hair. Tonight, though, while I was in my stained black T-shirt, open white coat, and baggy checked pants that—trust me—look good on no one, my brother was perfectly put together in his European-styled sports jacket, bright blue button-down shirt, designer jeans and shiny loafers.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him.

Chet smirked and folded his arms. “Hello, little brother, what a surprise! How are you? Want something to drink?” He looked meaningfully at the mini-fridge under the counter where he knew there would be plastic-wrapped containers of blood left over from dinner service.

“Yeah, yeah.” I waved him off, but I did ladle him out a mug of the veal blood we use for making the foam that goes on the cold consommé. “You know all that. What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” Chet leaned against my desk and accepted the mug.

“Zoe called you, didn’t she?”

Chet shrugged. “She said you’ve had a weird day, and it might help to talk to family.”

“I’m banning cell phones from the kitchen.”

“Yeah, but you’d have to start with yours, and you’d get the shakes from withdrawal.” Chet drained his cup. “So, what got weird?”

I watched my undead brother casually ladle himself a second helping of blood. What could possibly qualify as weird in a life where this was normal?

“How’s Ilona?” As an attempt to change the subject, it was less than graceful, but it was all I had. Ilona St. Claire was Chet’s girlfriend. We did not get along. She had views about daybloods, especially the ones who maintained relationships with their vampire relatives. I had views about vampires with gothic pretensions, separatist rhetoric, and questionable taste.

Chet’s answer to my question was to shrug, sip blood, and change the subject back. “How’re things here?”

“We’re on target to turn a profit this month.”

“Is that before or after you pay these off?” He ruffled the edge of my invoice stack.

I decided to plead the Fifth on that one and dug around for some more small talk I might have overlooked on the first pass through.

“How’re things at the spa?” I tried.

“We’re booked solid through the end of this year. Marcus is talking about expanding.” Chet drained his mug again. “Speaking of the spa, have you thought about my offer?”

The invoices rustled uneasily. “Yes.”

Chet had offered to make me a loan of twenty thousand dollars. It sounded small in the face of the other numbers that had been getting waved around today, but it was enough
to clear this stack, if only to make room to start building a new one.

“Did you think about it seriously?” asked Chet.

“Very seriously.”

“It’d be enough to get the food truck you’ve been talking about…”

“
Reese
has been talking about a truck.” In fact, my number two sous had been talking about very little else lately. “I haven’t.”

“Why not? They’re all the thing…”

“And that’s why,” I said. “They’re all the thing. Everybody’s got one. We haven’t got the time, the money, or the personnel to take it on, let alone to do it right.”

Chet sighed and put down his mug. His pale skin had drawn tightly over the bones of his face. “Charlotte. I can help,” he said, softly, so I could hear the hurt under the words. “Why won’t you let me?”

“It’s not you; it’s me,” I said, which was true. “Besides, I’ve got a new gig that should take care of the backlog.” Attempting to keep my voice at the appropriate level of warmth and enthusiasm, I filled him in on the pertinent details of the Alden-Renault wedding.

Chet straightened up, one vertebra at a time. “You’re catering the wedding of a Maddox and a
vampire
? What’s next? Setting up the buffet for the Hatfield-McCoy family reunion?”

“Not my business who’s marrying who, as long as the check clears.” I shrugged, smoothed the plastic wrap back in place over what was left of the veal blood, and stashed it back in the fridge. That this kept me from having to look Chet in the eye was strictly a side benefit. “As you’ve so helpfully pointed out, I’ve got a cash flow problem. Besides which, what I do with my business is not really your problem, is it?” Pride’s a nasty thing. It rushes you into hot spots before you’ve had time to get your asbestos panties on.

“You’re
my sister. It is my problem,” he shot back. “I helped build Nightlife. I’ve still got—”

I did not need to hear the end of this sentence. “You
left
, Chet! You wanted to go run your spa and get your own existence. Fine. You got it. But you don’t get to tell me how I run the place you walked out on!”

“I cannot believe you are still mad about the spa.” Cold lights sparked under the blue of my brother’s eyes, and I had to drop my gaze, fast. “Is that why you won’t take the loan? You can’t stand to be reminded that I’m making it and you’re not.”

“I do not need you to prop me up so you can take the damned tax break!”

We were both on our feet, just inches from each other, a whole world of old arguments and old hurts swirling between us.

Chet broke first, backing up and swinging around so he could plant his hands on the edge of the counter. If he dented my stainless steel, I was going to stake him a good one.

Judging from the way Chet curled his fingers into fists and pushed himself back up, the same thought had occurred to him. “Okay.” Chet dug his hands into his pockets and looked around the kitchen as though hoping somebody had left an answer lying around. “Okay. Are you heading out? Want me to walk you to the subway?”

I swallowed, hard, and with an effort set aside the argument. There was absolutely no winning it. “Um…it depends.”

“On what?”

I don’t want to say this. Don’t make me say this.

“On what?” asked Chet again, slowly, in case I’d missed something the first time.

“On whether Anatole’s out there tonight.” Anatole Sevarin was another vampire, one whom I’d met at pretty much the exact same time I’d met Brendan Maddox, and like Brendan, he’d kind of not gone away.

“Sevarin?” As Chet said the name, he proved he had a frowny face of his very own. “I thought you were dating Brendan.”

“I am. Mostly. But Anatole stops by some nights.”

Chet looked down his nose at me, and I felt the beginnings of a long, slow blush. “I don’t ask him to,” I said, even though part of my brain was yelling at me,
Just
keep quiet!
“He just stops by.”

“Anatole Sevarin does not ‘just’”—Chet paused to make the air quotes—“do anything.”

“You barely know the man.”

“I’ve been asking around.”

“Why?”

“Because he wants to date my sister!”

A shiny new penny dropped, and I glowered at my brother. “So, what? You think I need a chaperone now?”

“Between Sevarin and the Maddoxes, I’m starting to think you need a keeper!” I watched while those words replayed themselves inside Chet’s head. It must have sounded just as good the second time around, because he backed away one step. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.” Anger has always brought out the honesty in our family. “And you can go now.”

Chet closed his mouth and turned around, heading out the way he’d come in. I tried not to wince as the door thumped shut, and I failed at that too.

I turned away and headed for the lockers. Now I really needed that beer.

It takes a special kind of place to become a hangout for professional chefs. First, it’s got to be open between three and six a.m., which is when most of us are out on the town, if we’re out at all. Second, it’s got to look so scary that tourists and reviewers will give it a wide berth. We don’t want their kind hanging around when we’re off shift. Finally, it’s got to serve food so scary nobody in their right minds would eat it.

Charlie’s Blue Plate meets or exceeds all the above criteria. Stuffed with scarred wooden tables and creaky bent-back chairs, it’s a pocket-sized bar that reeks of old beer and hot grease. Once upon a time it would have been filled with smoke. The streaks of ash and soot are still visible on the ceiling. In summer, the patrons take their plates outside and stand around on the sidewalk, in violation of a whole bunch of municipal codes we could recite in four-part harmony, and probably would after enough beer.

When I walked in, Charlie’s brimmed with off-duty chefs and cooks, crammed knee to knee around those little tables. They were drinking hard and chowing down on plates of the house specialty: deviled kidneys with a blow-the-top-of-your-head-off dipping mustard. Mama Charlie
presided over the front of the house, wedged behind the tiny bar in the corner. She was a big, gray, placid woman with a nose so crooked it must have been broken at least once. Charlie himself was a fireplug of a man with a bald head and hairy arms; he never wore anything but a white undershirt and jeans. Not that we usually saw any more of him than his beefy hands as he shoved fresh plates of kidneys or similar delicacies through the pass and bellowed, “Order up!”