I stabbed TALK. “Go to hell,” I told the phone.
“Dory?” Kit Marlowe’s voice came booming out of the speaker, like it was in surround sound. “Is that you?”
“Yes. Do you have something to say to me?”
“Naturally! Why else would I be calling? I need—”
I hung up.
He rang back immediately, because of course he did. Vamps didn’t need speed dial. They had speed fingers.
“Damn it! Don’t hang up on me!”
“Then say the magic words.”
“What magic words? What are you talking about? I want—”
I hung up.
I put the phone on silent mode, pulled on jeans and a black tee, and headed downstairs.
My butt vibrated. I sighed, took the phone out, and held it a good distance from my ear. “What?”
“Don’t hang up on me again!”
I hung up because I don’t take orders from him.
The kitchen was full of fey again. Including Reiearr, who was rolling out dough—like a machine. He’d been the one with the sad, lumpy effort last time, but things had clearly turned around.
“Damn,” I said, and meant it.
He looked up, and froze. His face twitched around for a moment, like it wasn’t sure what expression it was going for. And then, slowly, it resolved into . . . not a scowl. It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t a frown, either.
“I was ordered to assist,” he informed me stiffly, in case I got any ideas.
“It’s impressive.”
“You cannot do this?”
“Never had the knack.”
He did smile that time, rather superiorly. “It’s in the wrists.”
“It looks good,” I said, because it did. And so did the hand pies on trays stacked literally everywhere. “Apple?” I asked hopefully.
“And cherry.”
“Goddamn.”
Ring, ring, ring.
“Sod it all!” Marlowe yelled. “What the hell do you want?”
“I already told you. I know it’s unfamiliar territory, but you’ll get it. I have faith in you.”
“This is ridiculous! I don’t have time for—”
Click.
I went over to the small stretch of counter by the stove, to help Gessa make sandwiches, and ended up getting handed a bucket of boiled eggs. It looked like we were all having sandwiches for dinner, and Gessa was putting some of each kind on the boy’s tray as she finished with them. I pointed out that it probably didn’t matter—he hadn’t seemed picky to me—and she nodded. But then kept doing it anyway.
“Slavers feed gruel,” she told me, after a minute.
“Okay.”
“Back in Faerie, also eat gruel.” Her eyes darkened. “And anything else.”
Ah.
“And now you’re having fun feeding him all kinds of different tastes he’s never had before.”
She didn’t answer, but looking at the determined slant of her chin, I didn’t think I had to worry about the kid going hungry.
“We’ll add some hand pies, too,” I told her, and she smiled.
My butt cheek did the mambo again, and I considered throwing the phone out the door. But it didn’t belong to me, and besides, that wouldn’t make the asshole go away. That would make him come down here, and then I might have to murder him.
“What?”
“All right, all right! I’m . . . sorry.”
It sounded like the last word got caught on something in Marlowe’s throat, probably his overweening pride.
“What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”
“You heard me! I’m tired of playing these stupid games! I need—”
Click.
I mushed up maybe three dozen eggs in one of Claire’s huge mixing bowls, added half a jar of mayo, some salt and pepper, some diced onions, and some Dijon mustard. And made a face after tasting it, because it was missing something.
Sven, who was stalking the kitchen like he was afraid we’d eat it all, passed me some brown sugar, because he used it on everything. Literally. How he still had teeth I didn’t know.
“Thanks, but I don’t think that’ll help.”
Sven looked like he was going to argue, but Reiearr intervened. He put a spoon in my mix and sniffed it cautiously before taking a tiny taste on the very tip of his tongue. And wrinkled his nose.
“It’s mostly just eggs,” I said defensively.
“Tasteless eggs.”
“I could add some pickle relish. Or some bacon?”
Sven perked up at the mention of bacon. He liked to add brown sugar to it while it was cooking to make what was essentially meat candy, so it was always a hit. But Reiearr disagreed.
“Vinegar.”
“Vinegar?”
And damned if a splash of the white wine variety didn’t help.
But not enough.
“I could go ask Claire,” I said, but Reiearr bristled.
“We don’t need Claire. We can do this.”
We all stood around and contemplated the bowl for a minute.
Then Gessa finished wrestling a tray of hand pies out of the oven and took a taste. And rolled her eyes at us. She tapped a cabinet with the handle of a wooden spoon, and I opened it to find— “Okay, yeah.”
“What is that?” Reiearr demanded, because he was apparently now a chef.
“Ambrosia,” I told him, sprinkling a liberal dose over the eggy mix on his spoon.
He tried another tiny taste, looking dubious, and then his eyes widened and he ate the whole spoonful. He grabbed the jar before I could dose my own eggs. “What is this?”
“I told you: ambrosia. Or smoked paprika, if you’re looking for it in the grocery store.”
He looked like he was making a mental note.
Ring, ring, ring.
“All right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Marlowe snapped. “Is that clear enough for you?”
“I don’t know.” I ate some eggs. Those were damned fine eggs. I shared a look of triumph with my co-chefs.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? What more do you want?”
I licked my fingers. “Normally, an apology comes with a little more than that. Like an acknowledgment of guilt. What, exactly, are you sorry for?”
There was a sudden silence on the other end of the line.
“Bang, bang?” I prompted.
And got an outraged noise in return. “You can’t still be upset about that!”
“Still?” I felt my blood pressure rise. “You shot me! All of a day ago!”
“I clipped you all of a day ago,” he corrected nastily. “To slow you down. And you should be grateful—”
“Grateful?”
“I had a perfect shot, and that gorilla you were with never even heard me. I could have killed you—”
“So I should be thanking you?”
“Apologizing for wasting my time, perhaps—”
Click.
I was going to tell Louis-Cesare about that gorilla comment.
I swore to God.
“Turn off,” Gessa advised, looking at the phone.
“If I do, he’ll be here in person—”
Ring, ring, ri—
“Let me spell it out for you,” I snapped at Marlowe. “I am done. Finished. Out of patience, time, and interest in anything to do with you—”
“This isn’t about me! This is about the weapons—”
“What weapons?”
“What weapons?”
It was approaching screech territory. I pulled the phone away to save my hearing, and saw Sven wince. I took the party into the hall, because it wasn’t fair for everyone to have eardrum damage.
“You know damned well what weapons!” Marlowe was yelling. “They couldn’t have used all of the ones they took from Radu on the consul, not with a single man carrying them! Which means the rest are still floating around out there, along with who knows how many others!”
“And?”
“And?”
“And what do you expect me to do about it? I have fifty other things—”
“Not now. This is priority one!”
“Not for me.” I made it final. “You’re the one with the resources for a job like that. One more person isn’t going to help you play hide-and-seek across the city, and I have—”
Marlowe cut me off. “I want to know what you know—everything. Every tiny detail. We’re dealing with a ticking time bomb—”
“Why a time bomb?” I asked, and immediately regretted it.
Because I’d forgotten and put the phone back to my ear.
“Because that bitch isn’t talking!” Marlowe yelled, at front-row-at-a-death-metal-concert decibels. “Even Mircea can’t get anything out of her, and whoever was working with her is still at large, leaving us with two very ugly scenarios!”
“Such as?”