“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.

Chapter 4

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.