Dragos Goes to Washington (Elder Races #8.5)(29)

She gave Tatiana a smile. “You know, I would have thought that too, but it’s funny how things work out. Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask you—is Captain Shane your plus one, or your bodyguard for the evening?”

“Does he have to be one or the other?” Tatiana’s smiling gaze met hers over the rim of her champagne flute.

“In reality, of course not,” Pia told her. “But for dinner plans, yes, I’m afraid he does. Will he be joining us at the table?”

“He would be welcome to, as far as I’m concerned, but I think he would prefer to stand guard.”

She inclined her head in thanks. “That’s what I needed to know. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go make a slight adjustment to the table.”

“Of course,” Tatiana replied. “You’re on duty too, this evening. Everything is lovely, by the way. I do hope we get a chance to chat further sometime this week.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Pia told her. As she left the other woman on the terrace, she muttered soundlessly to herself, Not if I have anything to say about it, we won’t.

The Light Fae Queen was too curious about things that didn’t concern her, and she didn’t appear to have any compunction about pursuing them. Pia had fended her off for now, but she didn’t have any doubt that Tatiana would circle back around to the subject if it suited her to do so.

Irritably, Pia went in search of someone to flag down to tell them about the place setting, but either the waitstaff were outside with most of the guests, or the kitchen staff were racing madly about, putting final preparations on the salmon soufflés that would be served as the first course.

Or, in Pia’s case, a vegan spinach soufflé. While Pia had no idea how to cook one, apparently there was such a thing.

After a few moments, she gave up. It would be quicker and easier if she just took care of things herself.

In any case, she could use a few minutes alone. She felt tired, strung out from all the coffee she had drunk earlier, and the buzzing in her ears was driving her crazy.

She stepped into the dining room and paused to admire the long table, decorated with runners of fresh white roses, and beautifully set with antique bone china, polished silver and cut crystal Italian glasses. Long white candles would be lit just before guests came in.

After dithering over which place setting to pull, she gently gathered up a setting in the middle of the table on the side nearest the entrance to the kitchen. Everything—crystal, china so thin she could see light through it and the silver—was original to the building of the house, kept in perfect condition, fragile and irreplaceable, so she held the pieces with nervous care.

Instead of spreading the other place settings out and disrupting the balance of the table, maybe they could find something decorative to set in the empty spot. There might be more of the white roses in the kitchen, or maybe a candle.

Hell, at this point, she didn’t care. They would throw something in the space.

Standing there, with her hands filled with bone china, silverware and crystal, her impetus ran out, while her thinking grew confused and jumbled.

The . . . there was a cabinet in the butler’s pantry. . . .

No, that butler’s pantry was in their home in upstate New York. Not in this house.

She blinked down at the pretty, foreign pieces in her hands. She couldn’t remember where anything went.

“This doesn’t matter,” she muttered grimly, as the wheels in her head ground to a halt and refused to move. “Solve it and move on.”

Someone in the kitchen would know what to do with the place setting. They could take care of it after they dealt with the soufflés. For now, she could just shove it in a closet somewhere.

There weren’t any closets in the dining room, so she hurried out into the hall. There was a rear closet in the hall, in an area near the kitchen, that held a built-in, hidden secretary desk where historically the housekeeper had kept household records. At least her tired brain remembered that much. It would do for now.

As she came within a few feet of the closet door, she smelled blood.

Fresh blood.

Which made no sense. There were doors opening and shutting all over the house, and in any case the meat dish wasn’t going to be served until the third course. Why would the scent of blood linger in this quiet nook of the hallway?

Propping the place setting carefully under her arm, she opened the closet door, and flicked on the light as she stepped inside.

Oh, well, there was the fresh blood. Quite a lot of it, spilled in a massive puddle on the floor.

It came from the lacerated throat of Mr. Colton, the vice president’s husband, who sat against the farthest wall in an ungainly sprawl, his head leaning far to one side. His white shirt was soaked in the blood that had pooled on the floor.

She blinked down at the wet, sticky pool of blood she stood in.

Then she set the place setting gently, oh so gently on the narrow secretary desk.

Mr. Colton still looked surprised. She wasn’t sure her legs were going to support her for much longer. The buzzing in her ears grew louder.

Dragos, she said telepathically.

Yes? Where are you? His mental voice sounded far away. I thought you were outside with us.

I was, she said. But now . . .

How exactly does one break the news to her husband that she’s standing in a closet with the dead body of one of their dinner guests?