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“I take it you didn’t like Christine?”
The chef made a fugue of gestures, rolling his eyes, shaking his head, waving his hands. Like he was having a small fit. “Like? Like? Non! We do not like. She was no good for heem. She use heem. For years and years and—” He made another noise. “But he feel the guilt, you comprehend? He think she need heem. And she let heem think this way, to bind heem to her. But there ees no help. She ees mad. She wants only to harm, and she hurt heem, so much—”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Do you not?” Verrell tilted his head. “But you must. He could not help her, non. No matter how much he tried. But you—”
Ray cleared his throat. “Uh, Verrell—”
I stared at the chef. “What are you saying?”
He beamed at me. “You are like her, you know. Pretty and petite and in trouble—”
Ray stood up. “Verrell!”
“—but not evil. He could not help Christine, but you—” Verrell nodded happily as the kitchen spun and the world came apart. “He can save you.”
Chapter Thirty
“I don’t think they tailored this thing right,” Ray said, sliding me a look.
I didn’t answer. I was staring out the window of a shiny black car—I hadn’t even bothered to notice what kind—that was taking us back to the consul’s. Her people had called an hour or so ago, rescinding my reprieve and ordering me back. For that interrogation, I assumed, although I didn’t really care.
I didn’t care about much right now.
Which was probably why I’d let Louis-Cesare’s people dress me up like a French Barbie doll. And because it had been that or wear the damned bathrobe. And because I knew they weren’t doing it for me. They were so happy to help their beloved master with his latest hard-luck case that it had been almost pathetic.
Damn, I thought. How bad had Christine had to be for a dhampir to look good?
“You, uh,” Ray said, and then he stopped in order to tug on the jacket of his sharp blue pinstripe. Which regardless of what he believed, fit him perfectly. Just like the gray Dior-esque skirted suit I was in, complete with black kid gloves. Because it might be August and hot as hell, but damn it, they matched the outfit.
It shouldn’t have surprised me. Of course Louis-Cesare had his own tailor. Of course he did.
“Um, so,” Ray said again, as beautiful Adirondack scenery passed outside the heavily tinted windows, looking vaguely spotty because of the veil on my chic little hat.
Screw it. I took it off and tossed it on the seat, ignoring the disapproving look I got from the chauffeur. I’d just trashed the consul’s house while half naked and shoeless. I didn’t think a missing hat was going to scandalize anybody.
And I didn’t care if it did.
“You know, it’s like this,” Ray said.
“Shut up.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I should shut up. And I will—”
I laid my aching head back against the seat.
“Just as soon as I point out one thing.”
Of course.
“He’s a cook, all right? I mean, like he knows anything.”
“He’s a master. And he’s been with Louis-Cesare for years.”
“So? I’m a master, and I been with Cheung for years. And he never told me shit. And I doubt Louis-Cesare was having heart-to-hearts with the kitchen staff. The guy was probably just talking, you know? Like people do—”
“Like people who said they were going to shut up?”
