“I still need a chef,” I told him.

He bared his teeth at me. “Did you not hear? There is no chef here.”

“I’m an innkeeper from Earth. I run a very small inn and I’m hosting a peace summit. I’m desperate for a chef.”

The quills on his back stood straight up. “There. Is. No. Chef. Here.”

I finally remembered what my father told me. It just popped into my head. Shakespeare said, All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances. So, Dina, let them have their monologue.

My future chef was an oversized hysterical hedgehog with a martyr complex. He obviously loved what he did. I had to lure him with work and I had to let him play his part and show him that it was time to let the martyr go. There was a new role to be played, that of an underdog winning the race.

“Three parties to the summit,” I said. “At least six members each, probably more. The Holy Anocracy represented by Clan Krahr and others, with at least one Marshall in attendance. All of them are used to finest cuisine available.” That wasn’t exactly true. Vampires were a predatory species. Their cuisine was sophisticated, but they were perfectly happy to bite through the neck of some random woodland creature, pop it on a stick, and scorch it over the fire.

The Quillonian looked at me. I had his attention.

“The second party to the summit is the Hope Crushing Horde. The Khanum will be present.”

The Quillonian blinked. “Herself?”

“Herself, and with some Under-Khans.”

His eyes widened. He was thinking about it. Maybe…

The Quillonian slumped against the wall and shook his head. “No. Just no. I am not who I once was.”

That’s okay. “Also, the Merchants of Baha-char. They are spoiled with wealth and their palate is very refined.”

“Which clan?”

“The Nuan Cee’s family. In addition to them the Arbiter and his party.”

I could almost feel the calculation in his head. “For how long?”

“I’m not sure,” I said honestly.

“What’s the budget?”

“Ten thousand to start.”

“Earth currency, the dollar?”

“Yes.”

“Impossible!”

“Perhaps for an ordinary cook. But not for a Red Cleaver chef.”

“I am not longer that.” He rolled his eyes to sky. “Somewhere the gods are laughing at me.”

Here is hoping I read him correctly. “It’s not a joke. It’s a challenge.”

His eyes went completely white. He stared at me. Come on, take the bait.

“I can’t.” He closed his eyes and shook. “I just can’t. The shame, it’s too…”

“I understand. You’re right, it is too much for anyone but a true master of his art.”

He whipped around. “Are you implying I am anything less?”

“Are you?”

He sighed. “What happened to your previous chef?”

“Usually I cook. But this is beyond my abilities. I will be very busy trying to keep our esteemed guests from murdering each other.”

“What about the front of the house?” he asked.

“We won’t need it. The inn will serve the dinner following your commands.”

He opened his mouth.

“I came here to find a chef,” I said. “I’m not leaving without one.”

“My spirit is broken.”

I held my hands up. “This kitchen says otherwise.”

He looked around, as if seeing the kitchen for the first time.

“It may not be Blue Jewel, but it is the kitchen of a chef who takes pride in his work. You can come with me and triumph against impossible odds or you can reject the challenge of the gods and stay here. Would you rather be a hero or a martyr? What will it be?”

The Quillonian surveyed my kitchen. I wasn’t familiar enough with Quillonian faces to identify his expression with one hundred percent accuracy, but if I had to guess, it would fall somewhere between shock, disgust, and despair.

The Quillonian heaved a deep sigh. “You expect me to cook here?”

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment. “Pantry?” he asked, his eyes still closed.

“Through here.” I pointed at the door in the wall.

He opened his eyes, glanced at the doorway through which we came and which showed the wall to be about six inches wide, and stared at the door. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

His clawed hand closed over the handle and he resolutely flung it open. A five hundred square foot space stretched in front of him, its nine foot high walls lined with metal shelves supporting an assortments of pots, pans, dishes, and cooking utensils. Dry goods waited like soldiers on parade, each in a clear plastic container with a label. An industrial size chest freezer sat against the wall next to two refrigerators.

The Quillonian closed the door, marched back to the doorway, examined the wall, came back, and opened the door again. He stared at the pantry for a long moment, shut the door quickly, and jerked it open. The pantry was still there. Magic was a wonderful thing.

The Quillonian carefully extended his left leg and put his foot onto the floor of the pantry as if expecting it to grow teeth and gulp him down. Contrary to his expectations, the floor remained solid.

“Well?” I asked.

“It will suffice,” he said. “Who shall I expect to serve this morning?”