Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(28)

“I guess we’ll find out,” I said, peering over her shoulder to see what smelled so damn good. I blinked in disbelief. “That’s meat.”

She shot me an evil look. “I know. Don’t start.”

“Are you planning on eating it?” I peeked under a row of paper towel-covered plates by the stove and discovered piles of bacon, eggs and toast. Considering that her usual breakfast had been wheat flakes and almond milk, it was a bit of a shock. But a good one. I filched a piece of bacon and pulled my hand back before she could slap it.

She scowled. “No.”

“This has something to do with going scaly, doesn’t it?”

“It has something to do with my other half slowly driving me nuts!” Claire said, stabbing at the remaining bacon. “It keeps trying to influence me.”

I thought it already had, given a few of her comments from last night. And that wasn’t such a bad thing. If ever a situation called for a little more ruthlessness, having a bunch of homicidal fey after your kid was it.

“I’ve tried to compromise,” she groused. “I tried eating fish and eggs.”

“Did it help?”

She made a face. “No. It doesn’t want fish. It doesn’t like eggs. It wants big piles of meat—the rarer and the greasier, the better. It would prefer live, squirmy things that it could kill first, only it knows better than to ask for that. So it tortures me with dreams of steak and sausages and ribs grilling over a fire.”

I grinned. “So you’re cooking all this to what? Torture it back?”

“The kids have to eat something. And I wanted to make enough for the twins and for a snack for them later. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“How long you’ll be?”

“Checking on Naudiz. It’s not the kind of thing anyone is going to discuss over the phone. I need to go in person.”

“Actually, no,” I told her, stealing another slice. It was the good kind—thick, with a honey, peppery glaze. “You need to stay here with Aiden. I have to go in person.”

“You don’t have my contacts,” she protested.

“I have Olga.”

Claire looked skeptical. “Your secretary?”

“Her late husband was pretty well known in the supernatural weapons trade. And Benny wasn’t too particular about where he obtained his goods.”

“And that’s a plus?”

“It is if you’re looking for a hot fey battle rune. I don’t think that guard is likely to go through legit channels. Her people are more likely to have heard something.”

“But I can’t just stay here and do nothing! That’s all I ever do!”

“You’re not doing nothing. You’re guarding your son.

And frankly, you’re a lot scarier than I am.”

She shot me an exasperated look. “Thanks!”

“You know what I mean. I can’t do what you can do, Claire. So let me do what I know how to do, okay?”

I was surprised by a greasy hug. “You’re a good friend, Dory,” she told me fervently. I hugged her awkwardly back, my hands full of salty, fatty goodness. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been hugged this much in a twenty-four-hour period.

She pulled back, blinking, and I pretended I didn’t notice. “Do you want something before you go?” She gestured at the stove. “There’s plenty.”

“I thought all we had in the fridge was beer and mayo.

And I wouldn’t trust the mayo.” I’d caught a small troll with his head in the jar a few days ago, eating it like candy.

“Olga sent enough for an army over with the twins.” Claire pulled a jar out of the fridge and frowned at it.

“You haven’t seen them eat yet. It was probably lunch.”

“How much more should I make?” she asked, eyeing dishes on the stove.

“Beats me. I’ve never actually seen them get full.

Anyway, I have to go, before everyone I know turns in for the day.” I topped off my coffee and headed out, before she could ask why there were tongue marks in the mayonnaise.





Chapter Nine


I found my duffel bag in the car and my cell inside the duffel, so things were looking up. The Camaro itself had some obvious new dents and smelled a little mildewy, but it started, so I counted it as a victory. Ten minutes later, I parked it next to a mini-mart that looked like any other in Brooklyn from the outside.

It did on the inside, too, at least in front. Customers could prowl the deserted aisles, buy rubberlike hot dogs, get a scratch-off card and stock up on overpriced toiletries, all while being ostentatiously ignored by the staff. The locals had eventually gotten tired of the lousy service and gone elsewhere, which of course had been the point. There were rumors that the store was a front for mob activity, drug running and/or gambling.

The truth was a whole lot weirder.

The back room was accessible through a brief hallway and a speakeasy-type door. I bent down and knocked, because the eyehole was roughly in line with my navel. A tiny green eye peered back at me suspiciously. “What?”

“Open up. It’s me, Dory.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because you’re looking at me?”