Chapter Four
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, the bags under my sunken-in eyes certainly weren’t Prada, and I generally looked like I’d had a weeklong 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 silk armor. It wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it would block a knife. My mother had given 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 forty 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 hid your body so people had a 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 unto himself, each 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 Arbitrator, tall and blond, wearing dark gray trousers, a dark gray 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 ponytail. 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 a startling light gray, 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 gray-eyed man grabbed the platform’s handle, and the visitors started toward the house.
The third man was almost as tall as the Arbitrator, but where George was lean with the 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 starburst on his skin. He looked hard, the way veteran soldiers sometimes look hard without trying.
The scar looked so familiar… I definitely had seen him and the Arbitrator before. I just couldn’t quite recall where.
“Showtime,” 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 Arbitrator is here. Three extra guests, male, probably human.”
He growled and went back 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 had 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 the 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 shape-shifter. 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’d 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 shape-shifter.
“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 shape-shifter studied Beast. “Mm-hm.”
George smiled. “This is my brother, Jack. That over there is Gaston, our cousin.”
Interesting family. “You must realize that both the otrokars 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 otrokars and the vampires,” George said. “Perhaps we could compare notes?”
The archives of the Arbitrators were legendary. He likely knew everything it was humanly possible to know about all three factions participating in the summit. No, this was his way of trying to gauge the extent of my knowledge. Either he wasn’t familiar with innkeepers, which I doubted given those archives, or he didn’t trust me to already know all the relevant information, which was annoying. Maybe lack of sleep was just making me short-tempered. “I’d love to—”
The 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. Orro 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 otrokars seem like similar species. Both evolved from the same predatory humanoid strain. Both have a martial society centered on 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 veneration of a warrior’s honor. Both cultures show almost no gender gap. That’s where the similarities end.”
A fair point.
“The vampires of the Holy Anocracy try to become perfect soldiers,” George said.
“Vampire,” I murmured. The left screen delivered a close-up of a vampire knight in battle armor, swinging a black-and-red battle mace.
“Each knight is a versatile killing machine, a warrior 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 the rank of knight and advancing within the knighthood. Specialization does occur, but overall each vampire is quite adaptable. The core of the Holy Anocracy, the noble Houses, consists of individuals who are hereditary soldiers. They are the warrior elite. The otrokars function differently.”
“Otrokar,” I whispered to the inn. The screen expanded to show an enormous male otrokar. He had to be over seven feet tall and at least three hundred and fifty pounds. Muscles bulged on his frame. The image faded and a new one slid into its place: another otrokar, but this one under six feet tall, lean, spinning two axes impossibly fast.
“You’re probably wondering why there is such discrepancy in size,” George told me.
Actually, no. I wasn’t wondering. I sighed and pretended to look bored. “At puberty, otrokar bodies begin producing a certain hormone that has the ability to greatly reshape their bodies. If they begin lifting weights, the hormone bulks them up and makes them larger. If they train in gymnastics, it makes them more compact and lean. This hormone has evolved as a part of their evolutionary adaptation, allowing them to survive in a wide variety of climates. Children who mature during the times of drought are smaller, children who mature in cold climates are larger, and so on. Unfortunately for their health, the otrokars pushed it to the next level, and until they implemented strict monitoring of adolescents, some of them grew so large that their cartilage wore out under their own weight. This condition is called Veteran’s Knees, and guests suffering from it require special accommodations.”
The room fell silent.
Jack grinned. “He occasionally forgets that the rest of us are not idiots.”
“No, I never expect people to be idiots,” George said. “I do expect them to lack some of the necessary information, because experience has demonstrated to me that assuming someone in a key position knows everything you do leads to disaster. But we were talking about the high degree of specialization among the otrokars. The hormone production stops after they reach maturity, and they are locked into the choices they made in adolescence. They learn to do one profession, but they do it exceedingly well.”
“So if you need someone to blow up a bridge in enemy territory…,” Gaston said.
“Vampires would send a team of five,” Jack said. “All five will know how to arm and disarm the bomb.”
“Otrokars will send a group of twenty,” George continued. “Five will know how to operate the bomb, and the rest will keep them alive until they get there. Otrokars have large families and outnumber vampires roughly three to one. Individually, vampires are better soldiers, which is why otrokars prefer to conquer in a horde. Vampires are led by hereditary aristocracy, while promotion within the otrokar ranks is a meritocracy influenced by a popularity contest. The differences between their ideologies are vast; the two civilizations have great contempt for each other, not to mention they are currently engaged in a bloody war. If members of the two delegations come in direct contact, we can expect fireworks.”
“They won’t have a lot of opportunities for unsupervised contact,” I said. “They will be housed in separate sets of rooms with individual access to the common dining room and ballroom. If they attempt to get at each other, they will be strongly discouraged.”
“Exactly how are you planning on doing that?” Jack asked. “We really need to discuss the security measures with your team.”
Really? “I’m an innkeeper. I don’t require a security team.”
His eyes narrowed. “So you’re planning on keeping them apart all by yourself?”
“Yes.”
Gaston rubbed his chin.
“You do realize they are professional soldiers,” Jack said.
“Yes.”
Jack looked at his brother. George smiled.
Jack wouldn’t stop. I recognized his type. He might not have been part of the Sun Horde, but he was a shape-shifter, and he was likely a cat. Cats trusted in themselves and chafed at any authority. Sean had at least given me the benefit of the doubt, but Jack wouldn’t. Not until I swatted him on the nose.
“Are you a professional soldier?” I asked.
“I was for a while,” Jack said.
Aha. “And I assume you’re fast and deadly?”
Jack furrowed his eyebrows. “Sure.”
I glanced at Gaston. “Are you also a professional soldier?
He grinned. “I’m more of a gentleman of adventure.”
George laughed under his breath.
“I save these two from themselves,” Gaston continued. “Occasionally I do a bit of skulduggery.”
What? “Skulduggery?”
“Scale a ten-foot wall, jump out of the shadows, break a diplomat’s neck, plant false documents on his body, and prevent an international incident type of thing to keep the war from breaking out,” Gaston said helpfully. “Dreadful stuff, but quite necessary.”
That was a really specific description of skullduggery. I smiled at the two of them. “Since you’re both men of action, this should be an easy challenge. Take my broom away from me.”
The two men measured the distance between me and them.
Jack glanced at his brother. “Are you going to say anything?”
George shook his head. “No, I’m just going to let you walk into this noose. You’re doing a fine job.”
Jack shrugged.
Gaston leaped into the air. It was an incredibly powerful jump. He shot off the floor as if he’d been fired out of a cannon, flying through the air and straight for me. The inn’s wall split. Thick, flexible roots, smooth with wood grain but agile like whips, exploded from the wall, jerking Gaston out of the air and wrapping him in a cocoon.
Jack dashed underneath Gaston. The inn’s tendrils snapped at him, but he dodged, gliding out of their reach as if his joints were liquid. It was a beautiful thing to watch. I let him get within three feet of me and tapped the broom on the floor. The broom’s handle split, fracturing. Brilliant electric blue shot out and hit Jack’s skin. He convulsed and crashed down like a log.
George threw something. The hand movement was so fast it was a blur. The tendrils shot out to block and a four-inch dart fell harmlessly to the floor.
The floor of the inn parted, and Jack sank into it up to his neck. Around me the room stretched slightly, waiting. The broom reformed in my hand. I flicked my fingers and the floor surged up, twisting with elastic flexibility to raise Jack to my eye level. Above him Gaston hung, suspended upside down. Only his face was visible.
The gray-eyed man unhinged his massive jaws. “Well. This is a bit of a predicament.”
I faced the far wall and pushed with my magic. The wood disintegrated. A vast, shallow sea, pale orange, stretched before us under amethyst sky. In the distance jagged peaks tore through the water. The wind bathed me, bringing with it the scent of salt and algae. Yes, this would do nicely.
Ripples troubled the surface. An enormous triangular fin with long spikes carved the water like a knife, speeding toward us.
“The inn is my domain,” I said. “Here, I am supreme. If you keep making yourself into a nuisance, I’ll banish you to that ocean and leave you in there overnight.”
The fin was barely twenty-five yards away.
Twenty.
Fifteen. A glistening blue hide rose out of the water.
The wall rebuilt itself just before an enormous mouth studded with dagger teeth thrust out of the ocean.
Caldenia descended the stairs. “Ooh. Bondage so early in the morning, dear?”
If only. “May I present Caldenia ka ret Magren,” I said. “Her Grace is a permanent guest of the inn.”
George got off the couch and executed a flawless bow with a flourish. I let the tendrils unravel around Gaston, and he dropped to the floor softly and bowed as well.
“Are you going to let me go?” Jack asked quietly.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“So Gaston gets let go, but I don’t?”
“I like him more than I like you.”
Jack looked at me and grinned. “Fair enough. I’ve got what I asked for.”
I dissolved the floor and let Jack go make his introductions.
George drifted over to me. “I didn’t know you can open dimensional gates.”
“I can’t, but Gertrude Hunt can.”
A cough made me turn. Orro stood in the doorway of the small dining room.
“I think breakfast is ready,” I announced.
The three men, Caldenia, and I walked into the dining room and sat around the heavy old table. Tendrils slipped from the wall, gently sliding a plate in place in front of me. I blinked. An egg, cooked paper-thin like a crepe and folded into an elaborate purse, was filled with small chips of potatoes fried to golden perfection, crumbled sausage, and tiny pieces of mushrooms. A thin green stalk sprouted from the center of the mix, bearing delicate pink flowers carved from a strawberry. A small basket woven of narrow strips of bacon sat next to the egg purse, holding a sunny-side up egg sprinkled with spices and next to it a flower of cucumber petals blooming with a center of creamed egg yolk that had been piped onto it with a surgical precision. It was so pretty I didn’t know whether to eat it or to frame it. The aroma alone made my mouth water.
“Eggs three ways!” Orro announced and retreated into the kitchen.
#
Eggs three ways was unbelievably delicious. Watching Caldenia sample them was an experience in itself. Her Grace daintily tried the filling of the egg purse, swiped the tines of her fork across the piped egg yolk, picked up the tiny bacon basket and delicately slurped the entire thing into her mouth. Sharp carnivore teeth flashed, bacon crunched, and she dabbed her lips with a napkin.
My seat let me glimpse a narrow slice of the kitchen from the doorway. Inside it, Orro paused at the island, a kitchen towel in his hand.
Her Grace put down her napkin. “Exquisite.”
All of Orro’s needles stood on end. For a second he looked like one of those neon-colored spikey balls you can buy in the toy section of Target. A moment later his needles lowered back into place and he continued to wipe down the island.
Lunch was served at twelve and featured something called “simple crème fraiche chicken and vegetables,” which turned out to be roasted chicken with crispy skin and meat so tender it fell apart under the pressure of my fork, served with fresh spinach, citrus, almonds and some sort of heavenly dressing. I couldn’t possibly keep Orro. He was sure to be too expensive, but I’d be a fool not to enjoy it while it lasted.
By six thirty everything was ready and I waited on the back porch, wearing my robe. The designated point of entry was in the field behind my orchard, out of the way of the front road, and the brush and trees would block most of the flashy side effects of the guests’ arrival. I had gently encouraged six apple trees to move a few yards to the side, so we had a clear path through the orchard, and from where I stood I could see the field, its grass freshly mowed. The sky was overcast, promising an early, gloomy evening followed by a dreary night. A cold breeze came, swirling through the trees.
Almost forty guests, most of them high-ranking. One misstep and my reputation and the inn’s ranking wouldn’t recover. My mind kept cycling through the preparations: quarters, ballroom, instructions to Orro… At the last minute I had reactivated the stables. The Merchants of Baha-char sometimes traveled with animals. They didn’t do it all the time, but when my parents hosted them all those years ago, they occasionally showed up with a beast of burden or a pet. The inn had already formed the stables once, many decades ago, so all I had to do was move it out of the inn’s underground storage. Unearthing them strained the inn and me both, but it was better to have the stables and not need them than let someone’s prized racing dinosaur soak in the cold rain while you made them available.
I’d thought of everything. I went down my checklist and crossed off every item. Still, I felt keyed up. If I were an engine, I would be idling too high. I could handle forty guests. I had handled more than that at my parents’ inn but only for a short time, and none of them had been actively at war with each other.
It would be fine. This was my inn, and no amount of guests could change that.
I reached out and touched the post supporting the roof over the back porch. The magic of the inn connected with mine, restless. The inn was nervous too.
The posts and the roof were a new addition the inn had grown on its own. I hadn’t realized it, but I had developed a habit of walking out onto the back patio, which used to be a concrete slab, and watching the trees. Sometimes I would bring a folding chair out and read. The Texas sun knew no mercy, and after I burned for the second time by staying out a minute or two too long, the inn took the matters into its own hands and sprouted stone and wood porch posts and a roof. It also replaced the concrete slab with pretty flagstone, and I wasn’t sure where the inn had gotten it.
“It will be fine,” I murmured to the house, stroking the wood with the tips of my fingers. The inn’s magic leaned against me, reassured.
“It will,” George said. He stood next to me wearing the same outfit as this morning, but now he also held a cane with an ornate top, a dark wood inlaid with twisted swirls of silver. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a knife in it. He’d also developed a mysterious limp. It appeared the Arbitrator liked to be underestimated.
Behind us Gaston and Orro carried on a quiet conversation. The window was open and the sound of their voices carried to us.
“So if it was your first meal, why eggs?” Gaston asked. “Why not caviar or truffles or something complicated?”
“Consider coq au vin,” Orro answered. “Even the simplest recipe for this dish requires a long process. One has to have a mature bird and marinate it in burgundy for two days. Once marinated, thick slices of bacon must be sautéed in a pan. Then the chicken must be browned, smothered in Cognac, which is then to be set on fire.”
That was definitely an Earth recipe, specifically French. Where in the world did he learn it?
“Then the chicken must be seasoned. Salt, pepper, bay leaf, and thyme. Onion must be added, chicken must simmer, flour is to be sprinkled onto the whole endeavor, and then it will be simmered again. More ingredients are added—bacon, garlic, chicken stock, mushrooms—until it all blends into a delicious harmonized whole.”
“You’re making me hungry,” Gaston said, “But I still don’t see the point.”
“No single ingredient is the star of that dish,” Orro said. “It is a whole. I could cook it in a dozen ways, altering amounts of ingredients and spices and creating new variations. How is the stock made? What vintage is the wine? A second-year cooking student can make this dish, and it would be edible. The very complexity of its preparations makes the recipe flexible. Now consider the humble egg. It is possibly the oldest food known throughout the universe. The egg is just an egg. Cook it too long, it becomes hard. Cook it too little, and it turns into a jellied mess. Break the yolk because of your carelessness and the dish is ruined. Gouge the gentle skin as you peel the shell and no culinary expertise can repair it. The egg allows no room for error. That’s where true mastery shines.”
Jack slipped into the kitchen and walked out onto the porch. “There is a police car parked down the street, two houses over. The male cop inside is watching the inn.”
I sighed. “That would be Officer Marais.” Like clockwork.
“Should we be concerned?” George said.
“Officer Marais and I have a history.”
All people had magic. Most of them didn’t know how to use it because they never tried, but magic still found ways to seep through. For Officer Marais, it manifested as intuition. Every gut feeling he had was telling him there was something not quite right with me and Gertrude Hunt. He couldn’t prove it, but it nagged at him all the same. Officer Marais was both conscientious and hardworking, and tonight a hyper hunch had warned him that something “not quite right” was about to happen, so he must’ve driven to the Avalon subdivision and settled down to watch the inn.
“He has an overdeveloped sense of intuition,” I explained. “That’s why I’ve made sure everyone knows to enter through the orchard. As long as he doesn’t see anything, we’ll be fine.”
“Did you confirm with the delegates?” George asked.
Jack nodded. “Otrokar at seven, the Merchants at seven thirty, and vampires at eight. I heard something interesting from the home office. They said we’re in for some rough waters with the vampires.”
George raised one eyebrow. “House Vorga.”
Jack sighed. “This thing when you know things before I tell them to you is really annoying.”
“So you’ve said.” George turned to me. “The delegation includes knights from every House immediately engaged in combat on Nexus. There are three major Houses and two minor. All major Houses initially were receptive to the peace talks; however, in the past few days, House Vorga began to lean in favor of continuing the conflict.”
“So what does that mean?” Gaston asked from the kitchen.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” George grimaced. “It could mean House Vorga made a secret alliance with House Meer to bring down the other Houses. It could mean someone in House Vorga has been offended by someone from House Krahr stepping on their shadow or wearing the wrong color or not pausing long enough before a sacred altar. It could mean someone saw a bird fly the wrong way over the steeple of the local cathedral. It’s vampire politics. It’s like sticking your hand into a barrel filled with forty cobras and trying to find one garden snake among them by touch.”
The best thing about vampire politics was that they were the Arbitrator’s problem. I just had to keep the vampires safe.
George was looking at the orchard, his face distant.
“Say, George?” Gaston asked. I glanced at him and he winked at me. “Why forty?”
“Because it’s a sufficiently large number to make the odds of finding a garden snake improbable,” George said, his voice flat.
“Yes, but why not fifty or a hundred? Why such an odd number? Forty? Snakes aren’t commonly measured in forties.”
George pivoted on his foot and looked at Gaston. The big man flashed a grin.
Jack chuckled to himself.
“When he concentrates like that,” Gaston told me, “if you’re really quiet, you can hear the gears in his head turning. Sometimes you catch a faint puff of smoke coming out of his ears…”
The air above the grass tore like a transparent plastic curtain, showing a deep purple void for a fraction of a second. The void blinked its purple eye, and a group of otrokars appeared on the grass. One, two, three… twelve. As expected.
The otrokar in the front started toward us. Huge, at least six five, and muscular, judging by the powerful arms and legs, he was wrapped in the traditional otrokar half cloak, which was more of a really wide, long scarf designed to shield your arms and face from the sun. While worn, it covered the head, shoulder, and torso to midthigh. The handle of a giant sword wrapped in leather rose above the otrokar’s shoulder. The second otrokar followed the first’s footsteps. He was slender and shorter than the leader by about four inches. The difference between the two was so pronounced they almost didn’t look like they belonged to the same species.
The others followed.
The leader reached the porch and pulled the cloak off in a single fluid move. An enormous otrokar woman stood before me, clad in leather and wearing the traditional half kilt. Her skin was a deep, rich bronze with a hint of orange. Muscles corded her frame. Her hair was french-braided at her temples, the braids running toward the back of her head. The remaining wealth of hair was brushed back into a long mane, so dark at the root it seemed black. The mane gradually lightened, and at the tips the color turned to deep ruby, as if her hair had been carefully dipped in fresh blood. Her dark violet eyes under black eyebrows examined us, assessing. Her posture shifted slightly. In the split second she glanced at us, she had seen everything: Jack, George, me, Gaston in the doorway and Orro in the kitchen, and she’d formulated a battle plan.
George bowed. “Greetings, Khanum. I’m sorry we have to keep our voices down. Local law enforcement is nearby. I trust the trip went well?”
“We survived.” Her voice was deep for a woman. The kind of voice that could roar. “I hate void travel. It feels like my stomach is turned inside out.” Khanum grimaced. “I suppose we’ll have to do the formal entrance once everyone is here.”
“That is the custom,” George said.
The otrokar at her side pulled off his cloak. He didn’t wear armor, only the kilt, and his torso was exposed. He was lean and hard, his muscles light but crisply defined under bronze skin tinted with green, as if life had chiseled all softness off him. If he were human, I would put him in his thirties, but with the otrokar age was difficult to tell. His hair, long and so black it shone with purple highlights, fell down his back. Thin leather belts and chains wrapped his waist, and dozens of charms, pouches, and bottles hung from them. The Khanum looked like a powerful predatory cat. Next to her he looked like a weathered tree, or perhaps a serpent: nothing but dry muscle. His face matched him: harsh, chiseled with rough strokes, with green eyes so light they seemed to glow with some eerie radiance. If he wasn’t a shaman, I’d eat my broom.
He surveyed the inn. “Is there a fire pit?”
“There is a room set out specifically for spirits,” I told him. “With the fire ring.”
His eyes widened a fraction. “Good. I will ask the spirits to show me the omens for these peace talks.”
“The omens better be good,” Khanum said quietly, her voice laced with steel.
The shaman didn’t even blink. “The omens will be what the omens will be.”
The Khanum took a deep breath. “I suppose I have to get on with it.” She raised her voice slightly. “Greetings, Arbitrator. Greetings, Innkeeper.”
“Gertrude Hunt welcomes you, Khanum.” I bowed my head. “Winter sun to you and your warriors. My water is your water. My fire is your fire. My beds are soft and my knives are sharp. Spit on my hospitality and I’ll slit your throat.” There. Nice and traditional.
Next to me Jack became very still. He didn’t tense; he just became utterly at peace.
Khanum smiled. “I feel at home already. Winter sun to you. We will honor this house and those who own it. Our knives are sharp and our sleep is light. Betray the honor of your fire, and I’ll carve out your heart.”
The door swung open, obeying the push of my magic. I stepped through. “Please follow me, Khanum.”
Ten minutes later I was back at my post on the porch. The inn had sealed the entrance behind the last otrokar. The only way they could exit would be through the main ballroom.
At seven thirty the area above the field shimmered as if a ring of hot air suddenly rose above the grass. The shimmer solidified into a giant ship with sleek, curving lines that made you think of a manta ray gliding through the water. The elegant craft sank to the ground, landing like a feather, a hatch opened, and Nuan Cee stepped out. Four feet tall, he resembled a fox with the eyes of a cat and ears of a lynx. Soft, luxurious fur, silver blue and perfectly combed, sheathed him from head to toe, turning white on his stomach and darkening to an almost turquoise dappled with golden rosettes on his back. He wore a beautiful, silky apron and a necklace studded with blue jewels.
Nuan Cee saw me, waved, and called over his shoulder. “This is the right place. Bring all the things.”
He started toward me. Four foxes emerged, carrying a palanquin with rose curtains. Behind them five other foxes, their fur ranging from white to deepest blue, walked, hopping lightly over the grass, all five adorned with silks and jewelry. A low braying sound came out of the belly of the ship. A moment later and a small fox emerged, tugging on the reins of what looked like a furry cross between a camel and a donkey. A precarious stack of bags, packs, and chests sat on top of the beast, piled almost twice as tall as the creature itself. The fox tugged on the reins again, and the donkey-camel stepped into the grass. Behind him another beast appeared, led by a different fox.
“So let me get this straight,” Jack murmured. “They fly around on spaceships, but they load donkeys in them?”
“They like donkeys,” George told him.
The fifth donkey made its way out of the ship, loaded like all the others. My parents had hosted Nuan Cee before. I mentally patted myself on the back for assigning them enough rooms to house a party three times their number and for pulling the stables out of storage.
“How long do they expect this to last?” Gaston whistled. “A year?”
“They love their luxuries,” I explained. “The worst thing you can do to one of them is to force them to go without. Once we get them all inside, would you mind showing them to their rooms?” I would follow behind to make sure nobody wandered off the beaten path, and then I’d settle all the donkeys into the stables.
“No problem,” Gaston said.
Nuan Cee finally reached us. Jack studied the tufts on the little fox’s ears with more than just curiosity. Maybe he turned into a lynx.
“Diiina!” The Merchant stretched the word.
“Shhh,” I whispered. “Honorable Nuan Cee, we have a policeman watching the house outside.”
“Oh.” Nuan Cee lowered his voice. “Right. I am so happy to visit your inn, so happy. Allow me to present to you my family.” He waved his hand-paw, and the foxes lined up, with the palanquin in the lead. “My grandmother, Nuan Re.” The palanquin passed by us. “My sister, Nuan Kuo. My sister’s cousin by marriage, Nuan Oler. My second brother-in-law …”
Five minutes later, the final fox finally stepped onto my porch. “Nuan Couki, my thrice-removed cousin’s seventh son!” Nuan Cee triumphantly announced. “This is his first trip.”
The seventh son looked at us. He was barely three and a half feet tall, with pale, sandy fur and huge blue eyes. He waved his paw at us, squeaked “Hi!” in a tiny voice, and dashed after the procession of Nuan Cee’s relatives and into the inn.
“Phew.” Nuan Cee wiped imaginary sweat off his brow. “I work too hard. Let us see our rooms.”
He disappeared into the inn, and I followed him.
“Cookie?” Jack said behind me.
“Just go with it,” George told him.
I made it back to the porch right at eight o’clock. Dealing with Nuan Cee’s clan had taken longer than expected. I barely had a minute to spare. At least they didn’t make that much noise. If all went well with the vampires, we’d dodge the bullet.
We waited in silence.
A minute passed.
Another.
“It’s very unusual for them to be late.” George frowned.
My magic chimed in my mind. Oh no.
“In front!” I dashed through the house. The men chased me. “They’re coming through the front!”
I burst out of the front door.
“Get down on the ground!” a male voice barked.
In the middle of the street, twelve knights of the Holy Cosmic Anocracy in full blood armor brandished their weapons. Officer Marais stood by his vehicle, pointing a Taser at the leading knight.
“I said get down on the ground!” Officer Marais roared.
The vampire nearest to him gripped his enormous axe. Streaks of bright red shot through the weapon. He’d just primed it.
“No!” I sprinted into the street.
Officer Marais fired the Taser. The electrode darts snapped at the vampire’s blood armor, sparking with blue.
The vampire roared. The huge axe swung in an arc and sliced the hood of the police cruiser in half like it was an empty Coke can. For a second Officer Marais stared at it in stunned silence. His hand went to his gun.
I couldn’t let him fire.
Magic shot from my hand into my broom. The handle split into dozens of long filaments and shot at Officer Marais like some face-hugging monster from a horror movie. The filaments wrapped around him, binding his body into a cocoon. He spun in place and toppled onto the asphalt.
The vampires roared in triumph.