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It smelled so good that I was halfway to the door before I realized I was naked.
I grabbed the only thing available—a huge blue brocade robe that had puddled at the foot of the bed and then at my feet once I dragged it on. But it covered the bruises and it smelled better than whatever was coming from downstairs. Which was saying something, considering how hungry I was.
Then I went looking for breakfast.
I didn’t meet anybody on the way, which wasn’t too surprising. Judging by the view out the window, it was high noon, and the closest thing to hell in the vampire day. Most would be sleeping through it, waiting for nightfall, particularly the younger ones. Some of the masters were undoubtedly up for security’s sake, but they must have been patrolling somewhere else, because I didn’t see them.
I did see a ton of rooms that didn’t look like they were involved in a reno. Not unless the default around here was “palace.” There wasn’t a half-painted wall or a drop cloth or a half-filled packing box in sight. Just room after room filled with fresh flowers and old paintings and sparkly chandeliers and rugs so luxurious that my bare toes were hardly visible over the nap.
And mirrors. Lots and lots of mirrors, each and every one showing me back an image that didn’t belong here, that didn’t go with any of the above. So it was kind of a relief to follow my nose down a small access stairwell and into a huge underground kitchen.
Where a couple of vampires were arguing over a stove.
“Eet ees an abomination,” Verrell was saying, his entire frame vibrating in indignation.
“You haven’t even tried it yet,” Ray said, poking at something in a pan. He’d finally acquired some new clothes, I was relieved to see—just jeans, loafers and a bright orange polo, but far better than the jungle man getup. “And anyway, you’re one to talk. If there was anything to eat around here, I wouldn’t have needed to call my boys to—”
“Nothing to eat?” Verrell gestured around expansively at the long rows of cabinets and the walk-in pantry and the two fridges wedged in between old stone countertops. “Zere is everything!”
“Blood sausage. Tripe. Freaking pâté, man.” Ray shook his head.
“And what ees wrong wiz zee pâté?”
“What is wrong? You take a duck, shove corn down its throat until it pukes, and call it cuisine?”
Verrell drew himself up. “You are zee Philistine,” he accused, pointing at whatever was in the pan. “And zat ees not food. Zat ees not even—” He caught sight of me standing in the doorway. “Ah, zere, you see? She ees up and nothing is ready!”
Ray looked over his shoulder, and waved a greasy spatula at me. “Ignore him. It’s almost done. Get some beer, will ya?”
He nodded at a couple of brown paper grocery bags on the counter, and I moseyed over to have a look. There was beer. Three different kinds. And snacks, most of which I didn’t think were long for this world if Verrell’s expression was anything to go by. Apparently, Slim Jims did not count as food, either. I tossed a brew at Ray and got one for myself, and sat down at a big wooden table, stomach rumbling.
“I’m introducing Verrell to the wonders of fried egg sandwiches,” Ray said, flipping one of the components onto a piece of buttered toast. He slapped some Velveeta and another slice of toast on top and squashed the whole ooey-gooey mess with his spatula in the frying pan for a minute. Then he slid it onto a plate and set the plate in front of me.
I took it a little warily, because I hadn’t known that Ray could cook. But it was perfect—the sandwich part crisp and buttery and the yolk just a little runny with the white browned around the edges. I dug in.
“See?” Ray said to Verrell, looking smug.
“She ees starving. Eet ees not a fair test.”
“I think I’m gonna crumble some potato chips in the next one,” Ray said, eyes narrowing. Verrell squinted back. And then suddenly the brown bags of goodness were gone, the pudgy chef booking it out of the kitchen with one under each arm.
“You’re not gonna chase him down?” I asked a little wistfully. Because this was not a one-sandwich morning.
“Relax,” Ray told me, and pulled up the edge of a kitchen towel. “I got more.”
And sure enough, there was more faux cheese under there—but no potato chips. Too bad. It had sounded kind of intriguing.
Ray lost no time in getting to work on a replacement, and I went back to making room for it. So there wasn’t a lot of talking until he slid plate number two under my nose. And sat down opposite me with one of his own.
“So, your guys are here?” I asked, butter dripping down my chin.
Ray saw and grinned. “Yeah. Louis-Cesare said he didn’t mind, and they’re safer here, at least till I can get things worked out.”
“And where is Louis-Cesare?”
Ray rolled his eyes. “Getting his ass chewed, probably.”
“Why?”
