Blessed (12 page)

How considerate. Studying the proposed menus, I tuned her out for a moment. On the prey, I almost protested the garlic, but on second thought, it seemed only fair to give the hunted a fighting chance. On the predator, I couldn’t decide who the dove dish would upset more: left-wing peaceniks or right-wing devotees of Noah’s ark.

“How ’bout I meet Sergio here tomorrow morning,” Nora went on, “and we’ll look forward to you joining us later for a tasting? Today I’ll settle for a tour —”

“Whoa. Wait.” Had I agreed to hire her? I liked her. Sergio liked her. But Sanguini’s was dangerous. I was dangerous. Not to mention the God-only-knew-how-many employees nearing their pre-preternatural mood swings. And Bradley, who’s to say he wouldn’t mist in some night, demanding “his” kitchen back?

Was Nora dangerous? Could she even fake dangerous? I didn’t think so, and I didn’t want anything awful to happen to her. She struck me as someone who’d led a calm, wholesome life.

“I’m sure you’re an outstanding chef, and your proposed menus scream ‘Sanguini’s.’ But, um, this particular position involves more than cooking and running the kitchen. The chef is an attraction per se.”

Nora reached for my sports bottle of Chianti and took off the top.

“You see, it takes a certain persona, a certain edge . . .” Damn, Sergio had been right. If I didn’t learn when to shut my mouth, we’d get sued. “To lead our guests in the midnight toast and convey a . . . Excuse me, what are you doing?”

Nora had taken a four-inch-long plastic vial of dark red liquid out of her large quilted purse and was unscrewing the cap. At the scent of blood, my gums contracted.

“Pig juice,” she informed me, pouring a good two shots into my wine and swirling it around before handing back the sports bottle. “You’re looking parched, hon, and, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, that’s never a safety-first situation when dealing with eternals.”

“Eternals?” I asked, reaching — despite myself — to drink.

“Vampires,” she explained as if it were business as usual.

As I toured Nora around the restaurant — she didn’t so much as blink at the boar heads or baby squirrels in the freezer — she explained that her previous employer had been undead (though she insisted on using the word
eternal
).

“But why would a vampire need a personal chef?” I asked, carrying my bottle with me. “I can’t keep any solids down, and it’s been a total nightmare trying to pass —”

“It takes practice to build up a tolerance,” Nora told me. “Start small — fruits, berries, Jell-O. They’re mostly liquid.”

“Really?” When she nodded, I almost hugged her. Not being able to eat wasn’t just a social and logistical dilemma. I missed it.

I’d been craving habanera-stuffed olives for days.

Nora glanced at my sports bottle. “You’re already acquainted with the grape.”

I blushed, busted. Something about her acknowledging what I was, being so apparently comfortable with it, made me feel more like my old self again.

Nora added that she’d cooked regularly for a sizable household staff and her employer’s “bleeding stock,” whatever that meant. Apparently, it totaled out to more than a full restaurant seating, and for the most part, she’d pulled that off daily for years and without any kitchen help to speak of. Incredible.

“As for this midnight-toast business,” Nora went on, opening the refrigerator to case it for future use. “I have no interest in it. But you should have received a résumé from a fellow named Freddy for the manager’s position. He’s a personal friend and a gentleman of some resources.” I was about to inform her that we’d already filled that job, when she added, “The role of vampire chef might . . . amuse him. It doesn’t have to be the actual chef handling the part, does it? I mean, wouldn’t any human chef be sweaty and frazzled from supervising the kitchen all night?”

“I guess not,” I said, clutching Frank for support. “I mean, I guess so.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, splitting the real and pretend chef jobs. It occurred to me, too, that if Vaggio hadn’t been murdered, playing the part — tailored suit, formal cape, devastating cheekbones — would’ve been beyond him. Well, the cheekbones, anyway. He probably would’ve enjoyed the show.

Maybe this Freddy could audition. If he worked out, Mama’s restaurant would be up and running, and I could devote my full attention to saving the infected.

“Are you positive you want this gig?” I pressed Nora. “I understand that you’ve been a chef at a sizable private estate. You’ve done large-scale parties, catering, and other possibly creepy stuff.” I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know. “But restaurant work can be beastly, and Sanguini’s . . .”

Nora held out her wrist to me. “Feel my pulse. Go ahead. It’s there.” When I hesitated, she added, “I’m not afraid.”

I felt for the beat and, after a moment, found it, steady and strong. I appreciated that she trusted me, but on second thought, could I trust her? Or was Nora Woodworth too good to be true? Too comforting, too confident, too savvy about the supernatural?

“I’ve got my own suppliers for the meat,” she declared, not missing a beat, “but I’ll need fresh produce.” Nora narrowed her eyes. “Now, where’s the local farmer’s market, and what’re the going rates for bribes in this town?”

It occurred to me during Econ that the
tasting
part of Nora’s scheduled tasting might be an issue. I remembered Bradley cooking at Sanguini’s stove, sampling dishes and spitting out the food. I recalled thinking how gross that was, but it hadn’t tipped me off that he was a vampire.

Anyway, I could manage the mushroom soup, maybe the ice cream and sherbet, the olive oils, the pesto, the cognac cream. Forget the pâté. As a human being, I’d adored the vegetarian stuff, but duck-liver pâté? Yuck.

I was intrigued, though, by the quail eggs, the lamb’s liver, less so the newt eyes.

Maybe if I took teeny bites, spit the solids into a napkin . . .

Forget it. I needed backup — stat.

After Chem, I had the halls to myself. Everyone else was in class or at lunch. So I ducked into a girls’ bathroom and texted Clyde and Aimee, asking them to meet me after school to go to Sanguini’s. As soon as I sent the message, my phone vibrated.

“Quincie Morris?”

“Who’s this?” I demanded. Hardly anybody outside Sergio and the Moraleses had my cell number.

“We’re seeking information on Henry Johnson, also known as Bradley Sanguini. Do you know his whereabouts?”

My grip tightened. “No. Who are —?”

The call died.

I hit Detective Zaleski’s number on my speed dial, then filled him in on last week’s mystery calls at the restaurant and today’s on my cell. “It could’ve been the same guy. I don’t know. We don’t have caller ID at the restaurant.”

“Be careful,” the detective warned me. “Any associates of Brad’s could be undead themselves, and this side of hell there’s no more unpredictable or depraved form of evil than a vampire.”

“Yeah,” I replied, staring in the mirror at my own vaguely translucent reflection. “I keep hearing that.”

I logged a few hours of homework in the school library, and then Clyde and Aimee met me at The Banana. They’d already put the top down.

Today the Possum’s lip had healed up, and his bruises had almost completely faded. Aimee’s blond hair had been colored a faded royal blue (like she’d changed her mind and tried to wash it out), which looked purplish striped where the pink had been.

The back of her head was cradled in her laced fingers as she leaned back in the convertible. Her ankles, each tattooed with a tiny skull, were crossed and rested on top of the driver’s seat.

As I walked up, she said, “I thought sunlight made vampires go
poof.
”

“This isn’t a movie,” I replied, lightly knocking her feet down.

At least with these two and now Nora, I didn’t have to hide who I was. I wondered, not for the first time, if Kieren was happier with the pack, where he could just revel in being a Wolf, or if he missed me as much as I did him.

As we exited the parking lot, I explained to Aimee and Clyde that I needed their input on Nora’s cooking. “Plus, we finally have a real lead. Her previous boss was a vampire, and she could recognize me as one. Only she used the word
eternal
and —”

“Whoa,” Clyde interrupted. “You’re trying to tell us that, after Sanguini’s first chef was
murdered
by vampires and its second chef
was
a vampire, its third chef has a history of
working
for vampires, and that’s supposed to be a good thing?”

“News flash,” I countered, glancing back at Aimee’s pained expression. “
You
work for a vampire.” I hit the turn signal. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m being careful. I’ve been fooled enough. But Nora may know something that can help us.”

In the front passenger seat, the Possum made a show of rolling his beady eyes.

“Damn it, Clyde!” I exclaimed. “She at least . . .”

“She at least what?” Aimee prompted.

Accelerating past a bicyclist, I said, “She knows a hell of a lot more about what I’ve become than I do.”

The kitchen smelled of marinara and garlic, wasabi and peppers, bacon and chocolate. Tiny bowls of pine nuts, olives, basil, rosemary, parsley, and newt eyes (on ice) littered the counter. Nora bent in front of the open oven, checking the javelina chops.