Many Bloody Returns Part 28

She blew again on her smarting fingertip. She ought to pursue that-marketing her own line of fine cosmetics-instead of this thankless occupation. Caterers were underpaid, overworked, and generally ignored. Unless something went wrong. Then they became the center of unwanted and often perilous attention.

Especially with her unique clientele.

The door to the kitchen swung open. "Are you ready with the cake, Sophie?"

The question was asked in an eager, breathless way by a woman who looked twenty but whom Sophie suspected might be a little older, though certainly not by much. With vampires it was hard to tell. The woman standing in front of Sophie was confident, beautiful, and wife to a distinguished vampire. She was dressed to the nines in a designer gown with jewels that flashed at her neck and ears. Rumor had it that Mr. Deveraux turned her on their wedding night, and that was only six months ago. Now here she was, acting every bit the mistress of the manor.

Sophie swallowed a wave of envy and said, "Yes, ma'am. Would you like me to bring it in?"

"Oh, I want to do it." The woman's face glowed with antic.i.p.ation. "Jonathon will be so surprised."

Sophie frowned. "You must be careful, Mrs. Deveraux," she said. "There are one hundred fifty burning candles on this cake. If your dress brushes against even one of them-"

Her concern was flicked away with the back of a bejeweled hand. "Don't worry. I know how to be careful around fire. This is my surprise and I want to deliver it."

Sophie stepped back from the table. "As you wish."

The woman took her place behind a tea cart bearing the huge tower of a cake. Sophie held open the door, careful to keep her own dress and hair out of the path of the blazing birthday tribute. The air fairly s.h.i.+mmered from the heat and glare of the candles. Why a vampire, especially such an old one, wanted candles on his cake was a mystery to her. One spark and he would burst into flame like an old Christmas tree.

Sophie hadn't met Jonathon Deveraux, tonight's guest of honor, but she had seen a picture of him, a portrait hanging over the fireplace, when she came to finalize the party arrangements. He was a tall, good-looking man who must have been turned in his thirties because his face was unlined, his hair dark and thick. That it was a contemporary portrait was borne out by his clothing, a casual s.h.i.+rt and linen slacks, and a backdrop of the stables here on the property. It was just an impression, the feeling that this was not a man who would have indulged in such a pretentious birthday display as one hundred fifty burning candles. No, Sophie thought, this must have been the idea of his vacuous new wife, too recently turned to know the danger.

Oh, well. Sophie looked at the mountain of cake pans and utensils stacked in the sink. Not her problem. Time to clean up.

She waved a hand. "Lavato."

The dishes arranged and rearranged themselves, moving from a sink of soapy water to another of clear running water and then onto a rack to be dried by a gentle stream of warm air. From the rack, they floated to the proper shelves in the cupboard or into silverware drawers. All done in the whisk of a cat's tail.

For the first time this evening, Sophie could relax. The cake was done, the kitchen in order. She had nothing to do now but wait for the festivities to be over. In reality, a vampire party was the easiest of all supernatural functions to cater. Vampires didn't require food. But they did like to impress each other with flashy displays, like the birthday cake. She found her biggest challenge for a vampire party was coming up with novel ways to serve blood. Like real b.l.o.o.d.y Marys (finding thirty women named Mary to donate blood was no easy feat!). Tonight she had gone to great lengths to find something really special-a case of vintage Rothschild taken from actual Rothschilds. She hoped the guest of honor appreciated the effort, since he was paying for it. But like most rich vampires, and their condescending wives, he would most likely take the gesture for granted along with the witch who provided it.

Thankless. This job was thankless.

Sophie took a seat on a stool and leaned her elbows on a granite countertop. She let her thoughts wander again to her favorite subject of late-starting her own cosmetics firm. She was facing the s.h.i.+ny surface of a chrome toaster and she scooted down to examine her reflection.

Clear skin. Tiny wrinkles touching the corners of wide blue eyes. Generous mouth with none of the telltale crinkles that caused lipstick to smear and marked the lips of the middle-aged woman. She truly did not look her age. Not in the way of vampires who not only physically stopped the aging process but reversed it. But nearly as good. Her creams slowed it to a crawl. And her cosmetics transformed the plain into...She examined her features. Her mascara made pale lashes long and dark, and her blush gave cheeks the definition that nature hadn't.

She touched the tip of her nose. Nothing short of surgery would fix something like that, of course. But artfully applied foundation, dark at the sides of her nose and light at the tip, diminished the contour.

She wasn't beautiful by any means. But she was good at this. She could show others how to be good at it, too.

She'd made a success of the catering business; why not try her hand at cosmetics?

The screech and howl came simultaneously and Sophie jumped off the stool.

Ye G.o.ds, she thought. The idiot has caught herself on fire.

This was exactly what she feared might happen. Sophie knew in spite of her warnings to Mrs. Deveraux, she would be blamed for the accident.

For a second, she considered fleeing. But that would be a waste of time. Mr. Deveraux knew his wife had hired Sophie to cater his party. Unless she planned to transport herself to an alternate universe, he would find her.

She might as well face the music now. Teleportation would be a last resort. She listened as the din of the crowd gradually faded from shock and horror to mumbled condolences to the new widower. Sophie waited for the kitchen door to open and for the bereaved to storm in to exact his revenge.

It took much longer than she antic.i.p.ated. The crowd was slow to leave, evidently, and Mr. Deveraux in no hurry to show them out. This puzzled Sophie but again, the antics of vampires were a constant source of puzzlement to her. They never did what was expected or what decorum dictated. She guessed that's what came from living hundreds of years and not being tied to the laws of G.o.d or man.

Sophie began to relax. Obviously, Mr. Deveraux was not devastated by the loss of his wife. Perhaps he had grown tired of her already. After all, what could he have had in common with such a young woman? In the manner of adolescents today (for to Sophie, anyone under the age of thirty was an adolescent), she would neither know nor care anything about recent history, let alone events from her husband's distant past.

Sophie took the fact that Deveraux had not yet made an attempt on her life as a sign from the G.o.ds that it was indeed time to switch careers.

When it became obvious that the party was proceeding, Sophie took a seat again at the counter. She pulled a small notebook from the pocket of her tunic and opened it. On the inside cover was clipped a pen which she pulled free. With a careful, precise hand, she started making notations. She thought a night cream would be a good introductory product. When women saw the results, they would naturally want something for the daytime, too. Following that, she would launch cosmetics: foundation, blushers, mascaras. All with the same miraculous base guaranteed to slow the ravages of age.

Hmmmm. Ravis.h.i.+ng. That might be an appropriate name for the line. A play on words. Ravaged to Ravis.h.i.+ng. Voila. A slogan.

Sophie felt the excitement build. She would do this. While the catering business was basically a one-woman show, this would be different. Her lotions were made the old-fas.h.i.+oned way, by hand. She would need to find a suitable place to make the cosmetics in batches large enough to accommodate what was sure to be a huge demand. And there was packaging and marketing to consider. She knew a warlock in advertising. He could help her find the right people to handle- The kitchen door flew open. Sophie, caught unaware and deep in her own musings, nearly fell off the stool. She scrambled to regain her footing and steeled herself to meet Mr. Deveraux.

"I'm so sorry, sir," she began, turning to face what would surely be her angry host.

The words died on her lips. Mrs. Deveraux stood smiling at her from the doorway. "Not to worry, Sophie," she said. "Mr. Deveraux had a long, full life. He went out in a blaze of glory befitting a vampire of his age and stature."

Sophie was too stunned to reply. How could a vampire as old as Mr. Deveraux let himself be caught on fire? Her candles were magic. One puff on one candle and the rest extinguished themselves. It was a safety feature of her own invention designed exclusively for vampires. The only danger would have come when the cake was presented.

She narrowed her eyes. "I don't understand."

Mrs. Deveraux waved a hand. "It's nothing for you to worry about. I have no intention of seeking retribution." She bent her head and examined her carefully manicured fingernails. "It was entirely my fault. I tripped on the rug and the cart b.u.mped Mr. Deveraux. When he turned around, poof. His jacket caught. It was an unfortunate accident."

She looked up at Sophie then, her own eyes tightening a little at the corners. "I'm sure you must be relieved to know I don't hold you responsible in any way."

Sophie was smart enough to recognize the threat. She shrugged. "I am relieved, yes."

The bright smile returned. "Then please come and do a quick cleanup, will you? There is ash on the cake, but I think if you work your magic, you can re-frost it or something and we can enjoy it. After all, my guests and I have heard so much about your wonderful cakes. It would be a shame to throw this one away. Will you fix it? Please?"

Sophie waved a hand, and a spatula flew from a drawer and into her grasp. She followed Mrs. Deveraux into the living room, barely drawing so much as a glance from anyone at the party. In fact, everyone seemed to have recovered quite nicely from the recent tragedy, thank you. The laughter and chatter and clink of gla.s.sware went on as if Sophie were here to clean up a small culinary accident instead of disposing of the host's mortal remains.

Sophie examined the cake. A dusting of ash did indeed cover one side, and a small mound of the stuff sparkled on the floor. Vampire dust was like diamond dust, hard and bright and the consistency of fine beach sand. Wouldn't do to bite into it. She started to smooth dust and icing away from the base of the candles when Mrs. Deveraux stopped her with a b.u.t.terfly touch to the arm.

"Get rid of those candles, too, won't you? It's a gruesome reminder of-well, you know."

Sophie nodded. Yes, she did know. Mrs. Deveraux showed no more grief for her dearly departed than any of her guests. Maybe it was a good thing Sophie hadn't met Mr. Deveraux. He must have been a thoroughly disagreeable individual to have his pa.s.sing marked with such ambivalence.

Sophie invoked a spell and the candles disappeared. It made patching the icing much easier. When she was finished with the cake, she muttered another spell and a small dustpan and whisk broom materialized. She scooped up the ash from the floor and the small mound of dust-embedded icing and, with a nod to Mrs. Deveraux, retreated with relief back to the kitchen.

Sophie sc.r.a.ped the gritty icing into the garbage disposal. She stared at the sandy residue left sparkling in the dustpan. This was the first time anything like this had happened at one of her parties. She'd heard the stories of vampires accidentally immolating themselves through drunken or careless behavior. It happened more often than people realized, actually. Vampires took their immortality for granted and didn't follow basic principles of common sense. Falling asleep with a lighted cigarette, for instance, was as fatal to vampires as humans.

Sophie shook the remains of the late Mr. Deveraux into the palm of her hand and let him-it-sift through her fingers. The ash felt surprisingly silky to the touch. She thought of the portrait hanging over the fireplace. Mr. Deveraux died the second death on his one hundred fiftieth birthday, and yet he pa.s.sed among humans as a thirty-year-old. Now that was the ultimate age defyer.

She sat up straight. How did vampires do it? How did they remain physically ageless regardless of the pa.s.sing of time?

They drank blood, for one.

Sophie's brow wrinkled in concentration. She reviewed what she knew about vampire physiology. It wasn't a lot. She did remember reading somewhere that the blood thing was to supply energy needed to replace what could no longer be derived from normal food sources. Vampires had all the internal organs of an ordinary human. They just no longer functioned, frozen in their bodies, Sophie guessed, to preserve the outward physical appearance of a normal human being.

So was that what made them immortal? Organs that did not atrophy with age or disease? Was that what stopped the aging process?

She had no idea. Nor did she have anyone she could ask. Witches and vampires avoided each other. She was an exception, as were other witches who supplied services that vampires were unable or unwilling to perform for themselves.

She looked again at the ash, winking like starlight in the glare of the kitchen's bright incandescence. This was the essence of a vampire.

What would happen if she mixed some of the ash into her lotions?

She felt a thrill as the idea took shape. Why not try it? What if adding the ash to her moisturizer, instead of merely slowing or decreasing the signs of age was, in fact, able to reverse them? It would be a revolutionary breakthrough. And it would be hers.

Sophie carefully emptied the ash into a ziplock bag and tucked it into a pocket in her tunic. She grew restless, impatient to get out of here and eager to experiment with this new ingredient. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was just a little before 1 a.m. Drat. Since vampires had adapted to sunlight, the constraint of getting home before dawn was no longer an issue. This party could drag on well into midday.

How to get around that?

What could she say to get Mrs. Deveraux to allow her leave early? The obvious answer would be that she was devastated by the accident. She could offer to come back tomorrow and clean up, maybe even throw in a free c.o.c.ktail party to be given at Mrs. Deveraux's time of choosing.

Vampires, for all their acc.u.mulated wealth, were notoriously tight-fisted. The free party might just do it.

Sophie closed her eyes and willed Mrs. Deveraux to come into the kitchen. She had only to wait a minute before the woman appeared at the door, looking slightly puzzled.

She frowned at Sophie. "Now this is strange. A second ago I had a reason to come into the kitchen but now I seem to have forgotten it completely." She laughed a little self-consciously. "The events of this evening must have unnerved me more than I realized."

Sophie a.s.sumed a properly downcast expression. She even began to clasp and unclasp her hands like an anxious schoolgirl facing a stern headmistress, making sure her distress transmitted itself through the air and into Mrs. Deveraux's consciousness.

Mrs. Deveraux immediately picked up on Sophie's angst. She reached out a hand but stopped just short of touching her. Sophie was, after all, the help and a witch to boot. "Please, Sophie," she said. "I can see how upset you are. I a.s.sure you there will be no repercussions from tonight's accident."

Sophie let a single tear trail down her cheek. "I just feel so awful. The whole thing is making me physically ill." For added emphasis, she brought a fist up and pressed it against her mouth.

Mrs. Deveraux backed away in alarm. "Perhaps you should go home," she said quickly. "I didn't consider how this might affect a woman of your age. I can have my own staff clean up tomorrow. There is no need for you to stay." She caught herself then and gave Sophie a sideways glance. "Naturally, I would expect a credit on the bill...."

Vampires were so predictable. Sophie kept her face a mask of unhappiness. "Naturally."

After that impudent crack about "a woman of her age" (for Mrs. Deveraux had no way of knowing how old Sophie was), Sophie was tempted to forget about the party offer. But she didn't have that many vampire contacts and if the ash worked...She acknowledged Mrs. Deveraux's permission to leave with a nod. "And for your consideration, I would be happy to cater a small c.o.c.ktail party for you in the future. No charge."

That clinched it. Mrs. Deveraux practically pushed Sophie out the door with admonitions to take care going home and to put the unfortunate event of the evening out of her mind.

Sophie waited until the door was firmly latched behind her to allow a smile. She summoned her transport telepathically. She didn't drive. Often she teleported herself, a trick she learned from her big sister. Not many witches could do it. It took concentration, though, and she found when she was distracted or excited the results were sometimes spotty. She might end up in a different county or a different state. Tonight she was both distracted and excited. Better to be safe than sorry.

Besides, she liked to support local business. The company she used was owned by a warlock with a driving service that provided after-hours transportation for supernaturals at reduced rates. Sometimes that meant waiting awhile for a car to appear. But tonight Sophie was lucky.

In a matter of minutes, the cab materialized in the driveway. Sophie climbed in, greeted the driver, and gave her address. The cabbie neither acknowledged the greeting nor the address. In fact, he hardly waited for her to pull shut the door before the car lurched away. Sophie's head banged against the headrest.

Had a bad day, have we?, she thought grumpily, wondering if she should make it worse by giving him warts.

But happier thoughts soon prevailed. She couldn't wait to get home and mix up a batch of moisturizer, this time with a pinch of Mr. Deveraux. How much to use would be a serious consideration. She pulled the baggie out of her pocket. There wasn't a lot of ash. Even considering what little she sc.r.a.ped off the cake, the amount left would maybe fill a half-cup measure. It must be terrifically concentrated.

The driver screeched to a stop in front of her house the same abrupt way he had pulled away from the Deveraux mansion. Again, Sophie's head bounced. Her temper flared and she raised a hand to plant a great big hairy wart on the tip of his nose when he turned around for the first time.

She let her hand fall. Great. Of all the drivers in the city I get the troll, she thought. His hairy face was already covered with warts. And trolls were notoriously bad drivers.

His guttural voice barked at her. "Here you be, ma'am. That'll be twenty bucks."

She clicked her tongue and forked over the cash, adding a five-dollar tip even though she knew he didn't deserve it. She had a soft spot for trolls. They couldn't help how they looked or their th.o.r.n.y temperaments. It was genetic.

At least this time, he waited for her to get all the way out of the cab before gunning away from the curb.

Sophie started up the path to her house. She lived on the outskirts of the city, a place close enough to allow access to the museums and theaters she loved, but far enough removed to allow the kind of outdoor activity witches enjoyed without attracting the curiosity or attention of neighbors. Her cottage was small but comfortable and she filled it with beautiful earthly objects- rocks, seash.e.l.ls, flowers, and plants. It was a place of refuge and light.

And best of all, it was a place with a bas.e.m.e.nt.

Which is where Sophie headed now, pausing only to switch on a light upstairs before heading down. Her workshop was here.

Her tools, her cauldrons, her herbs. She'd had an industrial sink and stove installed and shelving to hold the basic ingredients of her cosmetic line. Everything was neat and orderly and stored in a way to make her work easy.

Sophie was nothing if not organized.

She tied her hair back and an ap.r.o.n around her slender frame and got right to work. In forty minutes, she had a batch of moisturizer brewing on the stove. It was time to add the new ingredient; time to add Mr. Deveraux and see what he brought to the mix. Her hand was shaking with excitement as she measured out a teaspoon, then reduced it by one half. After all, she had no idea what the effect of the ash would be. And since she was going to be the guinea pig in this experiment, she felt it prudent to proceed cautiously. She could always add more to a later batch if need be.

Sophie stirred in the ash. It dissolved into the cream base instantly. Now all she had to do was wait for the mixture to cool. She could hardly stand still, her excitement and impatience bubbled up inside her like champagne waiting to be uncorked. She stuck her finger into the pan, testing, again and again only to s.n.a.t.c.h it back and dance around waving her burned digit. Why was it taking so long for the d.a.m.ned stuff to cool? She had spells to make things hot as fire but none that did the opposite. She'd have to work on that.

Later.

At last, the mixture was cool enough to allow Sophie to spoon a portion onto a gla.s.s plate. She swirled it a bit, approving of the texture-not too greasy, not too dry. She lifted the plate and sniffed. A nice citrusy bouquet...with just a slight undercurrent of musk. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed again. The citrus was supposed to be there. The musk? She wasn't too thrilled but realized that the musk was Mr. Deveraux. He was male, after all. Perhaps in the next batch she would add a stronger fragrance- essence of jasmine, maybe, or frangipani-to counteract it.

In any case, the scent was not important. It was time to sample the cream, to see if what she hoped was true.

Her hand shook a little as she scooped a portion onto two fingers. She crossed the room to watch in the mirror as she smoothed the moisturizer onto her face. It felt rich and luxurious on her skin. That was a good thing. It was absorbed quickly into her skin, leaving no greasy residue. Good, again. It tingled just a little. Sophie's inspiration for when she took the stuff public. It gave the impression that there were active ingredients in the lotion, that it was doing something. An attribute of her original formula.

They were all attributes of her original formula.

So far, she saw and felt nothing new. No flush of rejuvenation. No tightening of the skin to signal a return to youthful firmness and texture.

Maybe she needed to give it more time.

She stared at her reflection. And waited.

And waited.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, she gave up. With a shrug, she turned away from the mirror. She wouldn't let herself be too disappointed. This was only a first attempt, after all. She stared at the pan on the stove, wondering if she should give it another try tonight. But her tired feet and tight shoulders intervened, begging to be put to bed.

Sophie acquiesced with a sigh. She was exhausted. She locked the baggie with the remains of Mr. Deveraux in a drawer, flipped off the light, and went upstairs to lay her weary bones to rest.

When she awoke the next morning, the first thing Sophie did was rush into the bathroom to examine her face in the mirror. She'd had a dream that the cream worked. Her dreams were often portents of things to come and she believed in them.

But she could see nothing changed in the heart-shaped face that stared back at her. The tiny wrinkles still radiated out from the corners of her eyes. Her hair was still touched with gray at the temples, though she hadn't really expected the cream would change her hair. Not unless she rubbed the stuff into it. She scolded herself in impatience for thinking such ridiculous thoughts. If she wanted to change her hair, there were plenty of conventional human products on the market to take care of it. No, she was looking for something different. Something to take the years away, not just cover them up.

She got dressed and went directly back down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. This time she added a full teaspoon of the ash to a new batch of moisturizer. She applied it liberally and went about her day.

There were always lots of ch.o.r.es for a practicing witch. Besides her catering business, Sophie had clientele who came for readings or spells. There were herbs to gather, earth summonings to perform. She was an important witch in her part of the country, and a great deal of her time was spent in correspondence with others of similar station all around the world. Generally, the time pa.s.sed quickly and she was content.