Sweep in Peace (Innkeeper Chronicles Book 2) (8 page)

“Yes.”

“Immersion circulator?”

“No.”

“A spherification device?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“It’s a device that creates spheres by submerging drops of a liquid in a solution such as calcium chloride, causing the drops to form a solid skin over the liquid center. They pop in your mouth under the pressure of your teeth.”

I shook my head.

“Do you at least possess an electromagnetic scale?”

“No.”

He shook his hands. “Well, what do you have?”

“Pots, pans, knives, bowls, measuring cups, and silverware. Also some baking pans and molds.”

The Quillonian rocked back and stared at the ceiling. “The gods are mocking me.”

Not again. “It’s a challenge.”

He flexed his arms, his elbows bent, his clawed arms pointing to the sky. “Very well. Like a primitive savage, who sets out to tame the wilderness armed with nothing but a knife and his indomitable will, I will persevere. I will wrestle victory from the greedy jaws of defeat. I shall rise like a bird of prey upon the current of the wind, my talons raised for the kill, and I shall strike true.”

Oh wow. I hope the inn filmed that.

“When do you normally have your morning meal?”

The clock told me it was four in the morning. “In about three hours.”

“Breakfast shall be served in three hours.” He hung his head. “You may call me Orro. Good day.”

“Good day, chef.”

I left the kitchen and went up the stairway. I was so tired, if I didn’t get some sleep, I’d start to hallucinate.

Caldenia emerged from her side of the stairs. “Dina, there you are.”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

A metal pot banged in the kitchen.

Caldenia frowned. “Wait, if you are here, who is in the kitchen?”

“Daniel Boone, cooking with his talons.”

“I love your sense of humor. Who is it really?”

“A Quillonian former Red Cleaver chef. His name is Orro and he’ll be handling the food for the banquet.”

Caldenia smiled. “A Quillonian chef. My dear, you shouldn’t have. Well, you should have years ago, but one mustn’t be petty. Finally. I shall be dining in a style to which I am suited. Fantastic. Does he have moral scruples? I am reasonably sure that this summit will result in at least one murder, and I have never tasted an otrokar.”

“Let me get back to you on that.” I walked to my room, took off my shoes, my robe and my jeans, collapsed into my bed, and fell asleep.

The inn woke me up fifteen minutes before six, and I crawled into the shower, which nicely banished my sleepiness but did nothing for my face. My skin was puffy, my eyes looked sunken in, and I generally looked like I’d had a week long drunken binge and was just now coming out of my stupor. There was no time to fix it, so I brushed some mascara on my eyelashes, dabbed some powder here and there, put on light workout pants and a loose T-shirt in case I had to move really fast and grabbed my favorite robe. Dark blue, very elastic, and beautifully light, it was made from spider silk and had higher tensile strength than Kevlar. Wearing it was like wrapping yourself in a silk armor. It wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it would block a knife. My mother gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday.

Sadness gripped me, so intense, I stopped, holding the robe in my hands. I wanted my mother back. I wanted her back right now, right this second, as if I had reverted to my childhood and like a scared toddler, I wanted to hug her and let her make everything okay.

I exhaled, trying to get rid of the sudden ache in my chest. If I had any hope of getting my parents back, I had to get more guests into my inn. At least twenty of them would arrive today and I would scrutinize their faces as they passed by my parents’ portrait. I slipped my robe on.

Robes were the traditional garb of an innkeeper. My father used to say they served dual purposes: they nicely hid your body, so people had harder time targeting you and they gave you “a certain air of mystery.” I would need the air of mystery. The three parties to this summit would be bringing their best people. Each vampire was a fortress onto himself, otrokar possessed overpowering strength, and Nuan Cee’s clansmen were ruthless. It would help if they hesitated before they decided to do something unwise.

The inn chimed, announcing an influx of magic behind my orchard. I picked up my broom, left my bedroom, and crossed the hallway to the wall. Beast was curiously missing in action.

“Terminal, please.”

The wall split and peeled back, revealing a large screen.

“Feed from the orchard cameras.”

The screen ignited, showing the field behind my apple trees. A dense sphere formed a foot above the grass, as if some transparent liquid twisted into a nine foot tall bubble. The bubble popped, leaving three beings and a large wheeled platform filled with bags on the grass. First was the Arbiter, tall and blond, wearing dark grey trousers, a dark grey shirt, a black vest with golden embroidery, and pirate boots.

The man to the right of him was about a foot shorter, but had to be at least a hundred pounds heavier, with broad shoulders, a massive chest, and hard, defined arms. High-tech tactical armor shielded his torso, contoured to his flat stomach, and it had to be custom made. He was simply too large for anything designed to fit average-sized people. His black hair was pulled back from his face into a rough pony tail. His body radiated strength and power. He seemed immovable like a stone colossus, but then he stepped forward, surprisingly light on his feet. There was something odd about his face. The proportions weren’t quite right for a human.

“Zoom in, please.”

The man’s face filled the screen. His skin had an olive tint, but his eyes, deep set under thick black eyebrows, were startling light grey, the kind of silver hue most people could only achieve with contact lenses. His jaw was too heavy and too well muscled, the kind of jaw I usually saw on old grizzled vampires, except he definitely wasn’t a vampire. I’d seen all sorts of beings, but this was a new one for me.

The grey-eyed man grabbed the platform’s handle and the visitors started toward the house.

The third man was almost as tall as the Arbiter, but where George was lean, with elegant, sophisticated grace of a trained swordsman, this man communicated tightly controlled aggression. He didn’t walk, he stalked, deliberate, quiet, watchful. His hair, a deep russet shade, was tousled. He wore black, and while the dark pants and black doublet obscured the exact lines of his body, it was very clear that he was corded with hard muscle. A ragged scar crossed his left cheek, like a small pale star burst on his skin. He looked hard, the way veteran soldiers sometimes look hard without trying.

The scar looked so familiar… I had seen him and the Arbiter before. I just couldn’t quite recall where.

“Show time,” I murmured and went downstairs.

As I walked down, the delicious scent of cooked bacon swirled around me, laced with some spices. Beast shot out of the kitchen, like black and white furry lightning, carrying a small strip of bacon in her teeth. There you are. Mystery solved.

I stuck my head into the kitchen. Orro stood by the stove, holding a spoon. Three different pans sizzled on the fire and various ingredients filled the island.

“The Arbiter is here. Three extra guests, male, probably human.”

He growled and went to stirring whatever he was cooking. Okay then.

I went to the back door, waited until someone knocked and swung it open. “Welcome.”

George nodded. “Hello, Dina. I hope we’re not too early.”

“Not at all. Just in time for breakfast. Come in.”

George walked inside. The auburn-haired man followed. The third man glanced at the platform, which was too wide to go through the door.

I smiled. “Please leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

The man turned back to me. Behind him the platform sank soundlessly into the ground. The inn would move the bags into their quarters.

“It’s heavy,” he said, his voice deep. “I can just take the bags in one by one.”

“It’s okay,” I assured him. Behind him the grass flowed closed, as if the platform never existed.

He glanced back and did a double take.

“Gaston?” George called from inside.

The big man shrugged and entered the inn.

I led them to front room. George took a chair to the left, Gaston landed on the couch, and the auburn-haired man leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply. Sean used to do that. This man was a shapeshfiter. Not a werewolf or a werecat of the Sun Horde, but something else.

“Breakfast will be served at seven,” I said.

“It smells divine,” George said. “I hoped to take this opportunity to go over some of our strategy.”

I sat in my favorite chair. Beast ran into the room, saw the auburn-haired man, and growled. He glanced at her. His upper lip rose slightly, betraying a flash of his teeth. Yes, definitely a shapeshifter.

“Please don’t try to intimidate my dog,” I said.

“I’m not,” the russet-haired man said. “When I decide to intimidate…”

“I will know.” I finished for him. “She isn’t an ordinary dog. If she bites you, she will cause real damage.”

The shapeshifter studied Beast. “Mhm.”

George smiled. “This is my brother, Jack. That over there is Gaston, our cousin.”

Interesting family. “You must realize that both the otrokar and the vampires will see Gaston as a challenge.”

“I’m counting on it. To put it plainly, I’m the planner,” George said. “Gaston is the muscle. His job is to attract attention and appear to be a threat. He is very good at it.”

Gaston grinned, displaying serrated teeth.

“Jack is the killer,” George continued. “He knows other killers, he understands them, and if necessary, he will remove a physical threat before it has a chance to cause any damage.”

Something shattered in the kitchen.

The three men glanced at the kitchen doorway.

“I understand that people in your profession are familiar with the otrokar and the vampires,” George said. “Perhaps we could compare notes?”

The archives of the Arbiters were legendary. He likely knew everything there was humanly possible to know about all three factions participating in the summit. This sounded like another test or maybe lack of sleep was just making me short-tempered. “I’d love to—”

A vicious snarl of a Quillonian in mortal danger cut through my voice. Now what?

“Excuse me.” I got up and walked into the kitchen.

The door of the far cabinet stood wide open. The Quillonian stood by it, all his spikes erect on his back. His hands clenched a plate. A thick wooden tendril clamped the other end of the plate, trying to pull it out of Orro’s hands and back into the cabinet.

“What’s going on?”

“I broke a plate and it refuses to let me have another one!” Orro snarled. “How was I supposed to know the dishes were prehistorically breakable?”

“Let him have the plate, please.”

The tendril let go and Orro stumbled back, the plate in his hands.

“Please help him,” I said to the inn.

The kitchen creaked.

“I know,” I said. “But you have to learn to work with him.”

Orro waved the plate. “I will persevere.”

“I’m sure you will.”

I went back into the living room and sat back in my chair, pushing with my magic. “Terminal, split screen, files on vampire and otrokar, please.”

A wide screen formed in the far wall, the left side showing a vampire and the right an otrokar.

George raised his eyebrows. “Thank you. On the surface the vampires and otrokar seem like similar species. Both evolved from the same predatory humanoid strain. Both have a martial society, centered around the ideas of conquest and land acquisition, valuing it over other forms of material wealth. They are both aggressive and quick to respond with violence. The art and religions of both civilizations show a strong cult of a warrior’s honor. Both cultures show almost no gender gap. That’s where the similarities end.”

A fair point.

“The vampires of Holy Anocracy try to become perfect soldiers,” George said.

“Vampire,” I murmured. The left screen brought a close-up a vampire knight in the battle armor, swinging a black and red battle mace.

“Each knight is a versatile killing machine, a human predator skilled in a variety of martial styles.”

The vampire on the screen clashed with a lizard-like opponent. The purple lizard grasped the vampire’s mace and ripped it out of his hands. The vampire pulled two short swords from the scabbards in his armor and spun, changing his stance.

“If fifty vampires are on the field, one of them will be a leader and two others will serve as sergeants,” George said. “If the leader is killed, one of the sergeants will take his place, and the best of the soldiers under his command will become a sergeant. They go through stages of martial education. Everyone begins as a rank and file soldier and receives the same basic martial training. Those who so choose go on to study and train further, attaining rank of knights and advancing within the knighthood. Specialization does occur, but overall each vampire is quite adaptable. The core of the the Holy Anocracy, the noble Houses, consists of individuals who are hereditary soldiers. They are the warrior elite. The otrokar function differently.”