And the next thing I knew, my hand was empty. And eight plates, bowls and glasses were in the bin, each in its own perfect little stack, with eight sets of silverware piled alongside. And a vampire was leaning against the side of the table, looking smug.
“I thought you had servants to do that,” I said, trying not to look impressed. Because his ego was already big enough.
“Now. But there were years when I did not.”
Yeah, I always forgot that about him. Because of a weird set of circumstances I didn’t completely understand, Louis-Cesare hadn’t spent his formative years in the bosom of a vampire family, being bullied and picked on and ordered around, but also being taught the ropes. Maybe it was why he was a pretty unconventional vampire even now.
Well, that and stubbornness. Somewhere in all those masterless years, he’d formed his own ideas about how the world worked. And by the time anybody got around to pointing out to him that, for example, senior masters did not bus tables, he’d been past caring.
“But I am surprised your friend does not,” Louis-Cesare said. “Do fey princesses not rate help?”
“If by ‘help’ you mean wilting noblewomen who wrinkle their noses at everything and don’t lift a hand.” They’d lasted less than a day. Claire didn’t play like that.
“The fey do not have kitchen help?”
I sighed. “Yes. But it’s the whole hierarchy thing. The soldiers were okay with the noblewomen being housed inside, since apparently they’re too delicate to face the rigors of the backyard.” He grinned. “But the regular servants couldn’t be put in better housing than the soldiers, because the soldiers outrank them. And we couldn’t fit the soldiers in the house, even if they doubled up, since there aren’t enough free rooms. So—”
“So no help.”
“No.”
Louis-Cesare looked thoughtful.
“Well, except for the twins.”
“The twins?”
“Sven and Ymsi. But while they’re good at picking up the couch so we can vacuum, they aren’t so good with the more delicate tasks. We lost eight windows when they tried to wash them and ended up obliterating them instead. And they’re not any better at cooking.”
“Given their size, I find that surprising,” he said drily.
“Yes, well. It’s not so much that they can’t cook, as what they cook. Trolls eat, well, I’ve never found anything they don’t eat, at least not so far.”
“Do I want to know what that means?”
I thought of a memorable dinner a few weeks ago. And shuddered. “No.”
Thankfully, he didn’t ask, just moved on to table number two. Which didn’t last any longer than table one. In a blink, the new plates were stacked neatly on top of the old ones, with the assorted accoutrements wedged perfectly alongside. If the whole master vampire thing didn’t work out, I knew some restaurants that would snap him up in a second. And then he got cocky and moved the overflowing bin to table number three.
As if.
“Where are your servants?” I asked with a grin, wondering if there was a whole family of crazy vamps out there.
“Some are working with Lord Marlowe. The Senate is shorthanded, and I was asked to have my masters lend a hand.”
“And the others?”
“Some are at Les Pléiades, my court in France. And some are here, in New York.”
“Here? Then why haven’t I seen any?”
“They have been busy looking for a house for me.”
“You’re buying a house here?”
“Hm. For some reason, I find New York to be more…attractive…than I remembered.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I didn’t say anything. I just followed behind him, stuffing paper goods in the garbage bag and closing up half-eaten trays of bakery rolls. Some of them hadn’t even been opened, but the others would probably be stale by tomorrow. Not that that was a bad thing. Claire’s bread pudding with whiskey sauce was almost as good as an orgasm.