“I’ve ferreted out a home number for him.” Bishop clacked a few keys in the background. “I’ll start there and work my way up, see if I can get a bead on him.”
“Let me know what you find out.”
Tucking the phone into my pocket, I broke into a sprint, and Midas kept pace with ease.
Red and white lights strobed the night, bouncing off thick plumes, and sirens screamed bloody murder.
Chef Daaé was a vampire, a Last Seed, who had dedicated his immortality to chocolate as an art form. He was a local celebrity in foodie circles, a humble genius, and an all-around swell guy according to what I had gleaned about him during the past year.
The shadow I cast wilted as the potential ripple effects of the blaze on his sweet tooth hit Ambrose.
Two gleaming fire engines skidded to a halt across the street, and I didn’t have to check the patches on the men pouring from them like militant ants—ick—to know Station Thirteen had arrived. As the unit responsible for responding to paranormal emergencies of the flaming-inferno variety, I wouldn’t have expected anyone else.
Midas and I held our ground, our hands clenched in fists at our sides, giving them room to battle the fire.
An ambulance arrived minutes later, and a local coven of paramedics checked with the men then trotted over to us.
“Any injuries?” the young man asked. “Do you need medical assistance?”
“No,” I answered for both of us. “We were on our way here for a date night when we saw the smoke.”
A frown knit his brow. “Anyone else meeting you here?”
“Chef Daaé,” Midas told him. “I booked him for a private lesson.”
“Goddess,” he breathed. “Let’s hope he was running late.”
“The crew just got here.” I admired their valiant battle. “Have they had time to check the entire building?”
“Captain Gray says the place was empty.” The young man ruffled his hair. “This will change things.”
Daaé was old, really old.
A handful of ashes might be all that was left of him.
“Wait for the police.” The man, who must be new if he didn’t recognize either of us, backed up a step. “They’ll want to talk to you.”
Sentinels undercover with the Atlanta Police Department would respond, but they all knew me on sight.
“Sure thing,” I assured him. “I’ll do that.”
Once he crossed the street, Midas and I got comfortable. I wanted to talk to Gray before we left, get his unofficial opinion on what started the fire. I was also curious how good a lion shifter’s nose was on picking vampire ashes from other debris. As alpha of the Kingsman lions, the newest predatory shifter pack to call Atlanta home, he had keener senses than most.
A buzz in my pocket had me fishing out my phone. “Any luck?”
“The Daaé clan’s butler says the chef left for work at dusk,” Bishop said. “I confirmed the drop off with his usual driver. He gave me the names of Daaé’s four personal assistants. They’re witches, and they all answered their phones. The general consensus is Daaé prefers handling private bookings solo. He genuinely enjoys teaching, and he feels an audience intimidates his students.”
After checking Midas had overheard the update, I told Bishop, “Thanks for doing the legwork.”
“See if you can’t salvage tonight.” He exhaled slowly. “You two might not be going out for a while.”
Doubtful Midas and I could rekindle the mood, I made appropriate noises and then ended the call.
“I don’t like this,” Midas said at last, staring across the street, flames reflecting in his eyes.
Wrapping my arms around his waist, I rested my head on his chest. “Neither do I.”
“Four people, including Chef Daaé, knew I was bringing you here tonight.”
“You heard Bishop.” I rubbed small circles at his spine with my thumbs. “He had assistants.”
A high-end outfit like Choco-Loco would have kept schedules out the wazoo, particularly for their star chef and the handpicked assistants who orbited him like chocoholic moons. The chef and his assistants might have had the only copies, or they might have been available to management, or they might have been on an app or even an old-school bulletin board. There were endless possibilities, and none of them were helpful in narrowing down how this happened, tonight of all nights.
About three hours after we arrived, the fire was quenched or had simply run its course, the building’s remains were smoldering, and a soot-smeared Captain Gray jogged across the road to greet us.
“I understand you had a date night planned.” His grimace cut white lines through the grime on his cheeks. “That’s bad luck.”
“It’s definitely something,” I agreed. “The paramedic told us the building was clear?”
“No victims as far as we can tell.”
A hit of relief spiked through me. “Does that include old-as-dirt vampires?”
“Sadly not.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “The cleaners are en route. They’re calling in a specialist to take samples and test them. It will be weeks before we have conclusive evidence either way.”
As treasured as Last Seeds were by their clans, we would have an inkling if Chef Daaé had survived before dawn by way of frantic calls made to the Office of the Potentate of Atlanta, the OPA, if he didn’t come home once they realized who he was set to meet for a private lesson.
Midas found his voice. “Arson?”
“Looks that way.” Gray leaned in, mouth stretched thin. “Aubrey says it tastes a bit like the fire magic he consumed in the clearing.”
So, the coven had reared its ugly head yet again, uncaring of the collateral damage. Why was I not surprised?
“Thanks.” I stuck out my hand. “I appreciate the work you do.”
“You too.” He shook it. “Let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”
“I’ll do that.”
With our plans for the night blown, I returned my attention to Midas, whose brow remained crinkled.
Leaning back against him, I tipped my head onto his shoulder. “Do you think the coven is to blame?”
The question jerked him to attention, and he focused on me. “We declared
