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He cursed some more in some fey language—I didn’t know it, but that was definitely a curse—and glared at the dough. “This is impossible!”
“It won’t tear if you roll it evenly,” Claire said, which only appeared to madden him more.
“I did roll it evenly!”
Claire gave a disdainful glance at the dough, which even I could see was lumpy and thick in places, and almost see-through in others. Like he’d been pummeling it instead of rolling it with the wooden pin he was brandishing, which still had pieces of dough stuck to it here and there. Ironically, it was almost the only thing in the kitchen not covered in flour.
“You never told me it was this hard!” he accused.
Claire crossed her arms. “You said, and I quote: ‘It’s women’s work. How hard can it be?’”
A fey at the sink choked back a laugh.
The flour-covered one snarled something at him.
“Sorry.” Dish Fey didn’t look sorry. He looked wet. Like, all down his front and dripping into a puddle on the floorboards, where the soapy mixture was turning the flour into something approaching paste.
Housekeeping did not appear to be a fey specialty.
“Raisins or nuts?” Claire asked me, as the chef went back to aggressively beating up his dough.
“Why not both?”
“Need a better dough for both,” she said dryly.
Damn, Claire, I thought, looking at the poor, suffering fey.
That was cold.
A car horn went off in the front yard. I looked out the window, and felt my smile fade. “Be right back.”
I slipped through the side door and moseyed out front, where a shiny black Lamborghini was parked catty-corner on the lawn. I’d have had something to say about that, but Caedmon must have done it, since I’d been too out of it last night to drive. I vaguely remembered us starting and stopping and starting and stopping as he slowly figured out this strange Earth conveyance, because the fey don’t carry cell phones to call a cab. And flagging someone down when seven feet tall and dressed like Robin Hood can be a problem.
So he’d decided to just drive us home instead—in our attackers’ car. And for a first-timer, he hadn’t done too badly. He’d even managed to miss the stone frog near the mailbox when he parked it, which I appreciated.
A couple of chop-shop boys I knew would appreciate it, too.
But somebody else didn’t.
“What did you do to my car?” Blondie demanded, from the driver’s seat.
“Is there a problem?”
“You know damned well there’s a problem! It won’t go!”
Purple Hair didn’t say anything, just stood there, all daytime dominatrix in black leather jeans and jacket, and a low-cut silk shirt the same shade as her hair. She checked me out, in my ratty sweats, and her eyes narrowed in judgment.
Or, you know, because I hadn’t bothered to arm myself, and she was wondering why.
“That’s a shame,” I said, glancing at Claire, who had come out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. “I wonder what’s wrong with it.”
Claire just smiled. It wasn’t a particularly nice expression. But Blondie didn’t seem to notice.
“Damn it! This is brand-new,” he told us furiously. “If you’ve fucked it up—”
A scaly arm reached through the window and jerked him out, because Claire was suddenly beside the car. I blinked. I hadn’t even seen her move.
I guess the vamps hadn’t, either. Because Purple Hair’s hand twitched, in the general direction of her jacket. I tensed, prepared to jump her, but she paused the action, probably realizing that she was about to make things worse.
