I had planned appropriately, ensuring our tables were filled with roasted meats of the most popular barnyard persuasions - pork, beef, and chicken - and all the appropriate sides. Chicago had once thrived as a cattle town, and that legacy lived on today. It wasn't difficult to find the choicest or homeliest cuts of meat, depending on your preference.
It especially wasn't difficult when you knew where to look. In this case, I looked to a slender woman in jeans and an apron, an aluminum tray of steaming food in her hands, who was walking toward the tables.
She was Mallory Carmichael, a recently confirmed sorceress and my (maybe) best friend. Our relationship had been strained by her recent efforts to unleash an ancient evil, which nearly destroyed Chicago in the process. Go figure.
Her hair was a newly vibrant shade of blue - or shades of it, actually. She'd dyed her hair in an ombre style; it darkened from pale blue at the roots to indigo at the ends. Tonight it was pulled into a messy bun because she was working as an official employee of the Little Red Catering Company.
Since loosing a fallen angel on the world, she'd been hired by the North American Central Pack of shape-shifters as a girl Friday in their Ukrainian Village bar and diner, Little Red. They were usually a self-contained bunch, but they were concerned enough by Mallory's behavior that they made an exception. She was now getting the Karate Kid treatment - doing manual labor while she learned to control herself and tolerate the magic that bubbled beneath her skin.
The Pack also realized that with a sorceress attempting to redeem herself, they had enough staff to increase their income. Little Red already produced top-notch Eastern European food, so they'd ventured into the catering business, prepping full-on meals for Chicago's supernatural denizens. Only supernaturals for now, because humans weren't yet sure that victuals prepared by shape-shifters were safe to eat.
Mallory put her trays on the table, where they were immediately arranged by the Cadogan House chef, Margot, a vampire with a signature bob of sable hair.
"Mallory looks good," Ethan said, still beside me.
I nodded, feeling as relieved as he sounded. Fortunately, Mallory was recovering from the addiction to black magic that had led her astray. But the wounds were still fresh, and vampires had long memories. We were in the process of rebuilding our relationship, and this wasn't the kind of betrayal that was solved by a pint of ice cream or a cathartic cry. I would need time before I could trust her again, and I had the sense she needed time to trust herself, as well.
I didn't see her nearly as much as I used to, so it was reassuring to see her here, now, helping others instead of creating magical mayhem. That's precisely why I'd asked Margot to hire Little Red for the catering. Supporting the bar meant supporting the shifters' new business venture and Mallory's recovery efforts. It seemed like a good idea all around.
"She does look good," I agreed. "I'm going to go say hello."
"Do that," he said, a hand at my back. "I'm going around to the front to greet the guests as they arrive."
"And formally invite them to the House so they don't break any points of vampiric etiquette?" Vampires did love their rules.
"Just so," he said with a smile. "And perhaps we'll finish our library discussion later?"
I barely contained the blush that brightened my cheeks. "We'll see," I said coquettishly, but the knowing look in Ethan's eyes told me he didn't buy the bashfulness.
My evening plans addressed, I caught up with Mallory as she began to walk away from the table, probably to grab another tray of meats.
"Hi," I said, suddenly self-conscious, our interactions still a little awkward.
"Hey," she said.
"I like your hair." That was the absolute truth, but it was less the hair than what the hair symbolized that thrilled me. Mallory's hair had been blue as long as I'd known her . . . except for her period as the Wicked Witch of the Midwest. It seemed to me to be a good sign.
She smiled and touched the top of her bun. "Thanks. It took forever, and I lost four towels in the process, but I think it turned out."
"It definitely turned out. The ombre works for you."
"I need to get some more stuff from the truck," she said, gesturing toward the front of the House. I nodded and walked beside her.
"You ready for this shindig?" she asked.
"As ready as we can be. We're trying to mix two groups of people who've basically sworn to have nothing to do with each other. You do the math."
"That good, eh?"
"I'm expecting some tension," I said honestly. Many of the Rogues had purposely avoided the House system, and now we were inviting them here to socialize.
A shifter carrying four stacked aluminum trays that smelled of porky goodness walked past us, and I couldn't help but stare as all that meat disappeared from sight. "I need to find him later," I absently said. "How's work?"
"Shiftery," she said, pointing to a white delivery truck that was parked at the open gate in the Cadogan fence. "I feel a lot better, but I've developed a new problem."
"What's that?" I asked, fearing a new magical addiction or another demigod with an attitude.
The answer came quickly, and it was decidedly shorter than a demigod.
"Mishka!"
Mallory frowned as a barrel-chested woman with bleached hair stepped out of the truck and headed our way. She was a shifter named Berna, and she tended bar and worked the kitchens at Little Red. She also supervised Mallory, apparently to Mallory's chagrin.
"She calls you Mishka?" I wondered.
"Among other things. And she's driving me crazy." Mallory picked up more aluminum trays, then turned to Berna with an obviously forced smile. "Yes, Berna?"
As soon as Berna reached us, she poked me in the arm. She was always concerned I wasn't eating enough - which was never the case; it was just my vampire metabolism - so the poke was actually an affectionate hello.
"Hi, Berna. The food looks good."
"You eat enough?" she asked in her heavy Eastern European accent.
"Always," I assured her.
"You eat more," she said, then poked Mallory. "You back to work."
"I was just saying hello to Merit."
Berna made a sarcastic noise and pinched my arm. Hard. "Still too thin," she pronounced, then walked away, yelling at another shifter who was heading toward the back of the house carrying plastic bags of yeast rolls.
"I should get back to work," Mallory said. "She has a very specific plan about how this gig should operate."