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closing up a kitchen for the night. I let her go, but not without a twinge or two of conscience. I did owe her an answer. I just didn’t have one. While I buried my nose in close-of-day paperwork, I turned all the events of the afternoon over in my head and came up with absolutely nothing. To make matters worse, Zoe’s question seemed to have gotten stuck on infinite replay in my head. What had gone wrong in Brooklyn? Nothing major. Nothing real. Except that I was there at all.
    I was able to keep myself looking good and busy until the last of the closers, including Zoe, waved good-bye and disappeared out the back door. Only then did I push my chair back and run both hands through my hair. I used to have hair down to my waist, but after that fire last year, I had to get most of it chopped off, and I still felt strangely naked without it.
    There was one way to get the answers I wanted, and that was to go straight to Oscar Simmons himself. I even knew where he’d be—the same place the rest of Manhattan’s chefs were at three in the morning: a crummy little bar called Charlie’s Blue Plate. This was dead convenient, because if there was one thing I needed more than answers after the day I’d had, it was beer.
    Happy thoughts of food and alcohol being served to mewere interrupted by a knock at the back door, followed by a familiar voice.
    “Hello, Charlotte?”
    “Chet!” I was on my feet and around my desk in time to hold out my arms for my undead younger brother as he strolled into the kitchen.
    “Hey, C3!” Chet used my old family nickname. We hugged, with enthusiasm, but a whole lot of care. On my part this was because Chet’s a vampire and consequently he’s light enough for me to pull off his feet if I’m not careful. On Chet’s part because, well, he’s a vampire and could very easily crack my ribs.
    Chet was turned nightblood at nineteen. As a result, he’s an eternal and very pale college freshman; cheerful, good-looking, possessed of questionable judgment and a “why the hell not?” attitude. Despite this, or maybe because of it, he’s also recently become a successful businessman in his own right.
    I stepped back and gave my brother an appraising look. Chet and I share the family’s light blue eyes and dishwater blond hair. Tonight, though, while I was in my stained black T-shirt, open white coat, and baggy checked pants that—trust me—look good on no one, my brother was perfectly put together in his European-styled sports jacket, bright blue button-down shirt, designer jeans and shiny loafers.
    “What are you doing here?” I asked him.
    Chet smirked and folded his arms. “Hello, little brother, what a surprise! How are you? Want something to drink?” He looked meaningfully at the mini-fridge under the counter where he knew there would be plastic-wrapped containers of blood left over from dinner service.
    “Yeah, yeah.” I waved him off, but I did ladle him out a mug of the veal blood we use for making the foam that goes on the cold consommé. “You know all that. What are you doing here?”
    “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” Chet leaned against my desk and accepted the mug.
    “Zoe called you, didn’t she?”
    Chet shrugged. “She said you’ve had a weird day, and it might help to talk to family.”
    “I’m banning cell phones from the kitchen.”
    “Yeah, but you’d have to start with yours, and you’d get the shakes from withdrawal.” Chet drained his cup. “So, what got weird?”
    I watched my undead brother casually ladle himself a second helping of blood. What could possibly qualify as weird in a life where this was normal?
    “How’s Ilona?” As an attempt to change the subject, it was less than graceful, but it was all I had. Ilona St. Claire was Chet’s girlfriend. We did not get along. She had views about daybloods, especially the ones who maintained relationships with their vampire relatives. I had views about vampires with gothic