Page 5 of Claiming a Demon

My job was technically a roundsman. I was trained at each station and could fill in anywhere. But lately, the head chef had been keeping me close to him. His sous chef left to run his own restaurant and Mikhail was dragging his feet on finding a new one. The grill was right in the middle and closest to the pass, so I could help him when he needed it.

la Rue de Perle was a paranormal-run restaurant. It was the first one ever to get recognized by the human critics and was recently nominated for a Michelin Star. We hadn’t heard back yet, but it was an honor to even be nominated.

I’d always enjoyed cooking. I liked that I could express myself without using words. As a kid, me being in the kitchen was my place of solace. Just me and my dad, cooking up a storm to feed the hordes of females we lived with. You’d think after having six daughters, my parents would’ve stopped. They wanted a boy so badly that they kept going until they had me. It wasn’t like the humans, there were no patriarchal ideals about males continuing the family line or whatever. They just wanted one of each, for the experience, apparently.

The dinner rush kept me busy. I floated between the grill and helping Mikhail at the pass. To fit a wide variety of paranormals of different sizes, the kitchen was larger than an average human restaurant kitchen, but plenty of us were above average in size. I’d been working here for years and I knew how to dance around the other workers without getting in their way.

I was helping garnish a few plates when Winter came skidding into the room, her eyes wide. “We’ve got a problem.”

The kitchen came to a standstill as we all turned to look at her. She wasn’t the skittish type, but she looked anxious and out of sorts.

“Well? Spit it out!” Mikhail barked.

“You know that really fancy chef from all those TV shows? The blonde one who yells a lot?”

Mikhail gave her a flat look. Talking about TV chefs didn’t seem like a big enough reason to interrupt the flow of the kitchen. Not until she flapped her hand toward the door to the dining room.

“He’s here. I recognized him when Dominique sat their table in my section.”

My mouth dropped open. Yes, we were getting popular and yes, we’d gotten some recognition, but I never expected celebrity chefs to visit. Unless–

Mikhail turned to me with a tense expression. He was thinking the same thing I was. That chef might be here to help make the decision on the Michelin Star.

“What do we do?”

Taking a deep breath, I let it out slowly. “What we always do.”

He pressed his lips together, determination overtaking his face. He nodded once and turned back to the kitchen, barking at them to get back to work.

“He’s just a person, like everyone else. Do your damn jobs and show him we’re worth the commendations.”

The tension rose in the kitchen as everyone rushed back to work. We still had orders to get out, and we weren’t going to stop everything for this. But when his order came up, I took extra care with it, cooking the meat myself. He ordered the veal tenderloin, one of our best sellers. Mikhail hovered, tasting everything, and when the plates were garnished, he stared after Winter as she disappeared through the door.

Gripping his shoulder, I squeezed gently to bring him around. He took a breath, letting it out slowly, and shook off the tension in his shoulders.

“Okay, okay. Back to work, everyone. We’ve got more patrons to serve.”

When he disappeared out the door to go greet the chef, I took over, calling out orders and garnishing them before they left the pass. I didn’t love being in charge, one of the many reasons I never took over as sous chef when Mikhail asked me, but I could handle it in a pinch. I kept the kitchen in order until Mikhail returned. He got a lot of curious looks, the staff wondering how we did, but he didn’t let anyone stand around and chat when we had meals to serve. I didn’t ask and continued to support him until the restaurant was closed and the kitchen cleaned up. We were the last two here, but that was pretty normal for us, and when he offered me a drink, I joined him in the breakroom.

“How’d it go?”

He nodded, but he still looked pensive. He had all evening, and I wasn’t sure what to take from that. Was he worried because the chef didn’t like our food, or was he worried because he did and getting that star would put more pressure on him?

I wasn’t the type to push, so I waited, sipping the bourbon he poured for me. His own glass was virtually untouched, his eyes distant. I could tell there was a lot on his mind and I waited until he was ready to tell me what was wrong.

He sighed, blinking down at his drink. “Think we’ll handle the pressure?”

“Do you?”

He shot me an irritated look. “Did I ever mention that I don’t like when you do that?”

A smirk passed over my face before I settled into the silent stoicism I was used to. Mikhail huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

“I still can’t decide if I like you being so quiet or not. In the kitchen, I love it. You get your shit done and you don’t talk back. But right now, I could use an actual opinion and you’re being irritatingly quiet.”

I hummed. It wasn’t like I didn't have opinions. I just wasn’t the type to share them. My sisters were loud. They would talk over me and never let me get a word in edgewise. I learned to be quiet and just listen. It made my life easier. As an adult, I still preferred to just listen. I understood people better because I noticed things other people didn’t because they were too busy talking. If I’d been able to go with him to meet the chef, I might’ve had a better idea of what was going on.

“You’ve got a good staff,” I finally answered. “Whatever the result, we can handle it. Have a little confidence in yourself.”