by Heidi Lang
Lailu glanced around. The night sounds had definitely stopped. Someone was there. Someone had to be there. “Probably Ryon,” she whispered, but her heart had jumped up its pace. She grabbed both buckets and hurried toward the door, water sloshing over the sides and spilling on her legs in icy rivers. Almost there, she urged. Almost—
Movement out of the corner of her eye had her turning, but not fast enough. Like something out of a bad dream, a large calloused hand grabbed the front of her shirt, slamming her against the side of the restaurant.
15
BLACKMAILED
Now you listen, and you listen well, you filthy little upstart cook,” Lailu’s attacker snarled, his breath hot against her face. She gagged at the smell of onions and something much worse. Dropping the buckets, she scrabbled at the hand pinning her to her restaurant. Her attacker laughed, a harsh bark of a sound, and suddenly Lailu knew who he was: the Butcher.
“Struggle all you want, little flea. It’s not going to save you.”
Lailu forced herself to stop, even as everything inside her screamed to keep trying, keep fighting.
“That’s better. Now, I have a message from Mr. Boss. He knows about your little dinner party tomorrow night, and when it’s over, he wants to hear about it. All about it, every last detail: who was there, what they talked about, everything. You hear me?”
Lailu nodded, her head throbbing with her pulse.
“Good. We’ll be expecting you at the Crow’s Nest tomorrow at midnight, and you’d better give a full report. After all, Mr. Boss doesn’t really need two chefs.” He tossed her sideways with one hand.
Lailu lurched to her feet, her fingers pulling a knife out of her belt, but the Butcher was already gone.
“Too slow,” someone said.
Lailu whirled, but before she could throw her knife, fingers closed around her wrist.
“Relax, it’s me,” Ryon said quickly.
“R-Ryon?” Lailu gasped.
“None other.”
She tucked the knife back into her belt. Ryon helped her stagger back inside, then set about making tea, acting as if it were his kitchen. Lailu sat in the chair and stared off at nothing. She was still trembling and couldn’t get that smell out of her nostrils. The stench of him.
Lailu had always been able to take care of herself, but the Butcher handled her like she was nothing but a useless child. Even with a knife in her belt, she hadn’t been able to do anything to him. As she thought about that knife, a slow, steady anger burned under the surface of her fear. Why hadn’t she pulled her knife sooner? She had been at the top of her academy class in hand-to-hand combat, and yet she’d wasted all that time trying to break free while her knife was right there. What had she been thinking?
“Here you go.” Ryon held out a steaming mug. As Lailu took it, she noticed that he’d already brought in the two buckets of water and shut the back door.
Ryon dragged a second chair in from the dining room and slouched into it. “Sorry about that, by the way.”
Lailu’s eyes narrowed on his guilty expression. “You sent him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said irritably. “And drink your tea.”
Lailu drank her tea, but not because he told her to. She glared at him as she sipped it, trying to make that clear. “So how did Mr. Boss know about Elister’s party?”
Ryon pulled a face. “I told him.”
“What?” Lailu realized she was standing, hot tea splashing over her fingers.
“Oh, come on, I had to tell him! What kind of spy am I if I don’t sometimes give him useful information?”
“So you admit you’re a spy?”
“Obviously.” Ryon frowned. “And sit down, would you? You’re not tall enough to be intimidating.”
“Oh, that’s real nice,” Lailu huffed, but she sat down. “I thought spies weren’t supposed to be obvious about it.”
“Anyhow . . . I didn’t realize he’d send Havoc out here, or I would have warned you.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it ruffled. He looked cuter that way, Lailu reflected absently, then immediately caught herself. Cute was not the word for Ryon. Tricky, treacherous, sneaky—these were all proper words.
Ryon straightened. “Well, at least we know one thing: Mr. Boss certainly hasn’t given up yet.”
“On?” Lailu prompted.
“On trying to be the biggest game in town. He’s hoping to find something to use on Elister. If Elister backs him, it would give him a much stronger position to break away from the elves’ control. And,” he mused, “then they wouldn’t be able to continuously search his businesses.”
“What are they even searching for?”
“You don’t know?”
Lailu shook her head.
Ryon ran a finger along his temple. He looked tired. “They’re looking for the other missing elves.”
“Missing . . . elves?” She remembered her opening day, how the elves had burst into her restaurant, searching for something. Their own people had gone missing? She shivered. “Why isn’t he dead, then? I mean, if they think he’s behind the disappearances.”
Ryon leaned back in his chair. “It’s not that simple.”
“They think he has them alive somewhere,” she realized. “That’s why they’re not doing anything to him yet. They want to figure out where he’s keeping them. Which means they probably have a sp—”
She stopped abruptly, staring at Ryon with new eyes.
He just watched her.
“Who are you really working for, Ryon?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and winked. Right in her face. The nerve!
Lailu’s hand clenched around her teacup. “You are the sneakiest, snakiest, worst, most obnoxious . . .” She tried to think of other insults.
“Go on. Tell me what you really think,” Ryon chuckled.
Lailu took a deep breath. “You’re worse than, than a fyrian chicken!”
Ryon snorted. “Worse than a chicken? You have got to work on your insults!”
Lailu gulped down the rest of her tea, ignoring him as he laughed and laughed. With any luck he’d choke on his own laughter, and that would be one less problem she’d have to deal with. “Feel better?” she snapped when he was finally quiet again.
“Much,” he agreed pleasantly. “I knew there was a reason I liked visiting you.”
“Whatever. And just so you know, there’s nothing as vile, as treacherous, as scheming as a fyrian chicken. They’re awful.” She could still remember that failed hunting trip, the sound of scratching chicken feet behind her, the heat on her backside . . .
“Well, I’d better go.” Ryon stood.
“You’ve—what? Why? Wait, Ryon!” Lailu spluttered, hurrying after him as he disappeared into the dining room. “You haven’t even told me anything! What should I do?”
“You should do what the Butcher told you to do.” Ryon paused at her front door. “Go to Mr. Boss at midnight tomorrow and tell him what he wants to hear.”
“But, but I don’t want—”
“It doesn’t matter. Lailu, Mr. Boss is serious. He will kill you and not think twice about it. You need to keep yourself safe and try to stay out of the way.” Before Lailu could answer, he leaned forward and ruffled her hair, then left, the door swinging shut behind him.
“I hate it when guys do that.” She fixed her pigtails, her face strangely warm.
Lailu was still up cleaning when Master Slipshod came home, slamming the door shut so hard the bell swung wildly. “Seems like we both have flighty friends,” he growled.
“What does that mean?” Lailu asked.
“It means that once again Brennon decided not to show up. And without him, they wouldn’t let me back at the table. Rogues, thieves, and liars, the lot of them!”
“The Butcher came here—” Lailu began, but Slipshod had already stomped past her, and a moment later, she heard him creaking up the stairs. Sighing, she finished cleaning and headed up after hi
m. She’d just have to tell him about it in the morning.
Lailu slept restlessly, dreaming the Butcher had caught Hannah. When she woke the next morning, she had circles from lack of sleep developing under her eyes and her whole body ached, but she could smell the delicious scents of marinating basilisk fish. Finding Slipshod hard at work in the kitchen cheered her up immensely.
Lailu inhaled deeply. The lemon marinade Slipshod was using was a delicious complement to the other herbs and spices, and she knew without even looking at it that it had come out perfectly.
“Morning, Pigtails,” Master Slipshod said from his place next to the stove.
“Good morning.” She hesitated, not wanting to bring up bad memories when the kitchen was so full of good smells, but Master Slipshod had to know about Mr. Boss’s request. “Last night—”
“You know what this means?” he cut her off.
“What what means?”
“This catering trip?” Master Slipshod turned and grinned at Lailu. “It means you finally get to use your Cooling and Containment cart.”
Lailu’s eyes widened, all thoughts of the Butcher vanishing in a rush of excitement. “Mr. Frosty?” she whispered. At Slipshod’s nod, she practically danced down to the cellar, then dragged her cart up the stairs and into the kitchen, her chest swelling with pride. Her Cooling and Containment cart had been a gift from Master Sanford, her favorite teacher at the academy. Master Sanford’s encouragement and enthusiasm had made Lailu’s early days at the academy endurable, even with Greg and the other kids relentlessly teasing her about her secondhand clothing. She was able to lose herself to the pure enjoyment of cooking in Master Sanford’s classes and forget that she didn’t belong, that she wasn’t an elite aristocrat like most of her fellow students.
Lailu would have loved Mr. Frosty even if she hadn’t gotten it from Master Sanford; not only was it designed by Starling Volan herself, but it came equipped with a generous spice rack as well as a large compartment underneath capable of keeping food either warm or cold, perfect for the traveling chef. When not in use, it folded down to a compact, heavy rectangle, but as Lailu pulled up on the lid and popped the sides out and into place, it stood just higher than her waist.
After bundling their basilisk fish into the cart, Lailu got back to business as usual, helping Slipshod cook up a delicious carper fish linguini with a side of garlic bread and steamed veggies. After all, they still had their lunch crowd to deal with before they’d close up and head to Elister’s. Lunch crowd. Just thinking those two words sent another thrill through Lailu, and she couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at her lips.
They were just pulling the lasagna trays out of the oven when there was a rap at the door.
Lailu and Master Slipshod looked at each other. “I’ll get it,” Slipshod said, dropping his tray on the counter and pulling off his oven mitts.
Lailu placed her tray next to Slipshod’s, then checked on the steaming veggies.
Suddenly, from the dining room, Master Slipshod yelled, and Lailu heard something clatter to the floor. She peeked around the curtain, then scurried back as her mentor raced past her and straight up the stairs, his face deathly pale.
“Master Slipshod?” Lailu called up after him.
No response.
Biting her lip, Lailu tiptoed out to the dining room and saw a small wooden box lying on the floor, a note nailed to the top. She reached for it, then stopped, taking in the darkened edges. Was that . . . blood? Holding her breath, Lailu carefully pulled the note off, trying not to touch any more of it than necessary as she read the scribbled message:
See what happens to those who disobey Mr. Boss . . .
There was no signature, but Lailu knew the Butcher must have written it. Swallowing hard, she flipped open the lid.
It took a second for Lailu to register what she saw, and when she did, she dropped the box, tripping backward over a chair in her haste to get away.
It was a hand. One long, skinny hand with long, skinny fingers, each one ending in a pointed yellow nail.
16
WREN
Lailu didn’t know if Brennon was alive or not, and she didn’t want to know. She seated and served customers without really seeing them, every few minutes rubbing her own hands together as if checking that they were still attached. Master Slipshod didn’t come down all day, but Lailu left him alone. Brennon had been his friend.
When it was time to close up and head to Elister’s, she called up the stairs to him. No response. Taking a deep breath, she walked up, then knocked on Slipshod’s closed door. Still no response. Tentatively she turned the handle and slipped inside.
The place was a mess, clothing strewn everywhere, the dresser on its side, books and papers all over the place. Lailu never went in there, so she didn’t know if that was normal. “Master Slipshod?” she called, taking one step, then another. Something crunched under her boot. She looked down. Dried noodles? What the spatula did he keep in here?
“Master Slipshod?” she tried again, picking her way toward the bed. Halfway there she knew it was pointless; the blankets were in a giant tangle, but Slipshod wasn’t in them. He was gone.
Gone.
Lailu closed her eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d gone looking for someone and found them vanished.
“When is Mama coming home?” she remembered asking all those years ago.
And her father had hesitated, had looked so uncertain, so fragile, so unlike himself. “When she’s ready,” he had finally said. And then he left, too, disappearing into his work, pretending his wife’s absence wasn’t like one of his precious carving knives, slicing away at their family.
Swallowing hard, Lailu pushed those thoughts away. People left all the time, didn’t they? It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t. Her chest felt like it had been scooped out with a giant serving spoon, but that didn’t mean it bothered her. She wouldn’t let it bother her.
She retraced her steps, then closed Slipshod’s door and leaned her forehead against it. With the sun already setting, she knew there was no help for it; she’d have to go to Elister’s alone. She couldn’t be late, not for Elister the Bloody. Not when she had to report to Mr. Boss. Not after she’d received a severed hand on her doorstep . . .
An hour later, Lailu found herself standing alone in the shadow of Elister’s towering Gilded Island mansion, her carriage ride across town already a blur in her mind. But she knew being scared never got you anywhere. As Master Sanford used to say, fear was the worst seasoning, and best kept on the shelf.
“Here goes.” Lailu knocked. The sound seemed to echo on and on. Everything about this place was terrifying, from the austere brick walls to the impossibly arched roof, to the solid iron doors. The front even had a marble statue of a man swinging an ax.
One of Elister’s bodyguards opened the door, menacing despite the mustache drooping over his lip. “You the chef?”
Lailu nodded, her throat too tight for words.
He stared at her cooking supplies suspiciously, and Lailu wondered if he was going to demand to search them. “Where’s the other one?” he barked.
“T-the other one?”
“I was told there would be two chefs.”
Lailu shook her head. “It’s just m-me today.” Just her. She had never felt so alone, and underneath the disapproving glare of the bodyguard, she had never felt like more of a child. How she wished Master Slipshod were here, too. At least she still had Mr. Frosty. The handle felt warm and solid in her hands, and she squeezed it reassuringly.
Grunting, Mustache stepped to the side and waved her in. “Kitchen’s this way.” He shut the door firmly, then pushed past her. He was so muscular he had to walk with his arms held out from his sides. It looked uncomfortable, and Lailu tore her eyes away from his broad back to study the hallway.
Torches burned every few feet, illuminating the many tapestries covering the walls. Lailu’s boots sank into the thick carpeting with every step, and when she passed one of the t
orches, she realized it wasn’t really a torch at all; no fire ever burned so consistently, without smoke. It looked instead like an ember caught inside glass, like the lights in the Industrial District.
“In here.” Mustache pointed to a set of wooden doors.
Swallowing down her rising panic, Lailu walked past him and into the kitchen. And stopped. “Oh my,” she whispered. The kitchen was as large as her entire restaurant, and full of, of, well, she wasn’t even sure what most of the contraptions were. She recognized a steam-powered oven in the corner. It was similar to her own, definitely a Starling Volan, but this one was a much larger model with more knobs on it. Next to it stood another metal box, slightly smaller, that seemed to serve a similar function. There were also bowls with knobs and buttons on them and pipes against the wall, and the floor and glistening countertops were made of shiny marble.
Lailu drifted toward a basin set into a corner. A series of pipes led out of it and along the walls, two very inviting-looking knobs on top. She turned one, her eyes widening as water came streaming out of the top of the basin in a beautiful fountain. “Amazing,” she whispered, turning it off again, then on, then off. She was filled with longing for this kitchen. The things she could do in here . . .
“If you’re done playing,” Mustache growled, “dinner is to be served in the main dining room at seven bells past.”
“What bells?”
“I’ll just come get you when it’s time,” he muttered, stomping away.
Lailu went from one end of the large kitchen to the other, turning random knobs and flicking switches. If it weren’t for the fear congealing in the back of her throat, she’d be having a great time. But no matter how much she delayed, she’d still have to serve Elister, and she’d have to spy on him. And she’d have to do it alone. A rush of anger warmed her. How could Master Slipshod have left her alone for this? Maybe . . . maybe Hannah had been right about him all along.
