Page 125 of Fallen Court

I’d fucked up. I expected mutiny any day. Baptiste either planned to warn me or strike the first blow—given our history, it was impossible to know where she stood. I slid my sunglasses off, jaw clenching, as I climbed out of the Mercedes and made my way to the door.

Unfortunately, it was unlocked.

The dining room was empty and as silent as a graveyard, but the rich scents of butter and garlic wafting through the air told me she was here. I bypassed the antique sideboard that served as a hostess stand, a half-empty cup of coffee abandoned next to the reservations book. I hadn’t stepped foot inside the restaurant in years, but it looked the same as ever. Antique chandeliers twinkled in the shadows, looming over a collection of high-backed red booths, the tables covered in starched linens and already set with polished silverware, wineglasses, and crystal vases overflowing with fresh flowers.

Baptiste Du Roschiers owned a dozen successful businesses sprinkled throughout New Orleans, but she only cared about two of them. While the theater, La Porte, accounted for the majority of her livelihood, this restaurant was her home. That was the only reason I’d agreed—per her request—to come alone. The Fontaine was sacred to her. If the First Parish Coven intended to betray me, it wouldn’t be here. Baptiste would never allow it, and with Étienne gone, she was the one calling the shots.

But I scanned the room anyway in case she planned to deliver more than a verbal lashing, the comforting weight of my 9-millimeters a reminder that I’d been wrong before. No threat materialized, and when I pushed open the double doors, I found her alone, stirring a pot on the stove.

She didn’t look up as I entered, her attention focused entirely on the simmering sauce. “It’s been too long since you crawled into my kitchen, Lach.”

Every time I saw her, it was easier to remember why we’d broken up. “I don’t crawl for anyone.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Pity. Sometimes a girl wants a man on his knees.”

Irritation flared through me, but I bit back a sharp retort. I would win a fight with the vampire, but, given my current situation, it was smarter not to pick one. “You asked to speak with me.”

“And you came,” she said pointedly, turning away from her dish. Her dark eyes glinted with both victory and reproach. “Although it took you long enough to get here.”

“I had more important things to do.” If she wanted an apology, she was going to be disappointed. Working with the First Parish would be much harder with Étienne gone. She would make certain of that, starting with this little test or whatever it was. She needed a reminder that there were boundaries—my boundaries. “The city doesn’t run itself.”

She set the spoon aside and crossed her arms, fixing me with a pointed stare. “And you are running it? From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re barely keeping a lid on things.”

“I don’t answer to you,” I reminded her.

She snorted, no doubt recalling the past. “Maybe you should. You made a mistake not telling the covens about the murders.”

“Creating panic wouldn’t have helped.”

“We could have, though,” she said.

“How?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “All the covens do is fight.”

She shook her head, grabbing a bunch of carrots and slamming them onto a cutting board. “And you lack imagination,” she accused as she reached for a chef’s knife. “I thought maybe Ciara could help you see.”

“See what?”

“That no one can help you if you don’t ask for it.” She waved the blade at me. “You could learn a thing or two from her. You’re standing here because she worked with us instead of against us.”

I clenched my jaw, hating that she was right. Not that I would admit that to her, especially with the fragile control I held over the covens. Asking for help was one thing. Showing weakness was another.

We stared at each other, a tense silence stretching between us. Finally, Baptiste sighed, shaking her head. “You’re never going to pull your head out of your own ass, are you? That’s why I decided to do it for you.”

Unease prickled down my spine. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Her answering smile showed a little fang. Baptiste wiped the knife on her apron, the razor-sharp edge catching the light. My muscles tensed, readying for an attack, but she merely flicked the knife toward the rear entrance reserved for deliveries. “It means that you owe me one. Come on. I have something to show you.”

She moved to the door and opened it, but she didn’t step into the back alley. I hesitated, suspicion warring with curiosity. This was a game to her. It always was, but I had no clue what the prize was. Maybe she just wanted to twist the knife of Étienne’s death. Or, more likely, she just got off on toying with me.

“Do you want this situation resolved or not?” And there it was: the bait—dangled too low to possibly resist.

I strode forward, hesitating for a split second when I reached the threshold.

“You still don’t trust me.” She laughed under her breath. “I hope you’re working on that with your new girlfriend. Humans don’t live long enough to waste time waiting for a man to change.”

I bristled, wondering if more news had leaked than just the murders.

Baptiste noticed and grinned. “Already screwed that up, too, huh? What a surprise.” She pushed the door open wider. “We’ll tackle that after we deal with your other mess.”