Chapter 20
Felix Morrick calls me the Kitchen King.
This is what occupies my mind at four in the afternoon, having not slept since my dead brother-in-law served himself dinner in my new dining room last night. The ledger shows Morrick's protection payments down forty percent while I was learning about fabric samples.
The Radiant Court wants to burn Olivia from the inside out. Arthur let her think he was dead for six years. And Felix Morrick is taking bets on my downfall.
I can fix one of these today.
"He took bets yesterday," Gray Streak says, standing in my new study that reeks of lemon oil. My eyes won't focus—everything doubles at the edges. Twenty hours without sleep. "At the Crow's Nest. Fifty gold that you'd be dead or fled within the month."
"Fled?"
"He suggested a pottery collective." Gray Streak keeps his face neutral. "Or a vegetable farm."
My shadows ripple across the floor, then immediately drift toward the window Olivia cleaned this morning. They pool where she stood on the ladder. Supposed to be weapons. Instead they're following ghost warmth.
"Stop that." They lean harder toward her residual presence. One settles exactly where she dropped a cloth. "We have work to do."
"The Copper Hands have fourteen active operations," Joss says from her corner.
She materializes with exactly what I need at exactly the right moment.
Twenty years and she still makes my instincts twitch.
"Warehouses on Dock Street, protection through the merchant quarter, gambling den near the courthouse. "
"You've been watching them."
"I watch everyone who might be a problem." She examines her nails. "Felix keeps his best enforcers at the main warehouse. Eight of them. Plus another six at his residence."
She knows their shift changes, bad knees, who's fucking whose wife. Thorough to the point of suspicion.
"We take it all tonight." I stand. My shadows reluctantly pull away from their warm spots. "Every operation. Every contact. Every coin."
"All of it?" Gray Streak blinks.
"Hit them simultaneously. Warehouses, gambling den, protection routes. Leave nothing."
"The logistics alone—"
"Are manageable." Joss traces routes on the map. "If we move at midnight. Guards change shift at eleven-thirty. Fifteen-minute window where coverage is thin."
She knows their schedules down to the minute.
"I could handle the eastern routes," she offers. "While you focus on the main warehouses. More efficient."
Splitting us up. Again. She's been doing this since yesterday.
"We move together." My vision blurs. I blink hard. "Gather everyone. War council in twenty minutes."
Gray Streak leaves. Joss doesn't.
"This is about the disrespect," she says.
"This is about reminding everyone what I am."
"What you are is managing bathroom schedules and discussing fabric samples." Not judging. Observing. "The Kitchen King has accuracy to it."
My shadows spike, then drift back toward the warm floor spots.
"Tonight changes that."
"Does it? You'll kill Felix, take his territory, then what? Come home to morning tea and garden planning?"
"I'll come home to an expanded empire and proper breakfast."
She almost smiles. "Though you might want to rest first. You look exhausted."
"I'm fine."
"Let me stay here tonight. Keep an eye on things while you handle the territory. Make sure she's safe."
There it is. The helpful suggestion that feels wrong.
"She'll be safe. Here. With my people."
The dining room has been transformed. Tablecloth. Runners. Doilies placed with mathematical precision. My maps look obscene spread over Olivia's domesticity.
"Warehouse team here." I point to dock positions. My finger lands slightly off. "Grimm takes the gambling den. Gray Streak handles protection routes."
"What about their safe houses?"
"Burn them."
"All of them?"
"Did I stutter?"
The door opens. Olivia wanders in, hair pinned with a paintbrush, flour on her cheek. "Has anyone seen my scissors? The good ones?"
Everyone freezes. Twenty killers suddenly fascinated by walls. My shadows abandon tactical positions to drift toward her feet.
"They're probably in the kitchen," Finn offers.
"I checked there. And the library. And that cupboard that smells weird." She notices the maps. "Oh, are you planning something? Is this a business meeting?"
"Territory assessment."
"That sounds very official." She's already leaving, then turns. "There are cookies cooling if anyone's hungry. Ginger ones."
She disappears. Everyone exhales. My shadows try to follow.
"Cookies," Tooth mutters.
"Focus." I tap the map, trying to remember what we were discussing. "Midnight. Simultaneous strikes. No survivors at the warehouses."
"None?"
"Did I fucking stutter the second time?"
We spend another hour on logistics. Entry points, weapon distribution, body disposal. Standard murder planning, except I keep losing count and my stomach growls thinking about ginger cookies.
At eleven-thirty, we move.
The shadow roads taste of copper and ash tonight. They remember their purpose, even while pulling toward the estate. We materialize in the warehouse district.
The Copper Hands warehouse squats between two defunct factories. Eight guards. One's reading by lamplight. Blue ribbon bookmark. Another eating an apple. Strange details to notice while planning death.
They stop looking bored when shadows solidify in their throats.
The first four die silently. Shadows expanding inside until things tear. Gray Streak opens another throat. Bodies drop.
I let the last one get ten feet before shadow spears pierce him in six places. He drops, twitching.
"Please—" Blood bubbles.
"Tell your friends in hell that the Kitchen King sends his regards."
The blade takes his head cleanly. It rolls to a crate. The wood grain patterns blur into faces. That's not normal.
Inside, their lieutenant counts coins. Sees us. Goes for his sword. Shadows pin him before his hand reaches the hilt.
"Where's Felix?"
"Fuck yourself."
I reach for his thumb. Calculate pressure—except the math slides away, replaced by Olivia asking about marmalade versus jam. His thumb comes off easier than expected.
"Where's Felix?"
"The townhouse! Merchant quarter!"
The shadows crush his windpipe. Quick. Five more locations to hit. Or six. The list blurs.
Violence unfolds with practiced efficiency, though I lose count. Twelve at the gambling den. Or fifteen. Bodies blur. My exhausted mind notices irrelevant details—new boots, wedding ring on the wrong hand. Protection runners die in alleys, blood mixing with rainwater.
Midnight plus forty minutes: Felix Morrick's townhouse.
He's waiting. Sitting with brandy like he's expecting guests.
"Shadow King." He raises his glass. "Or should I say Kitchen King?"
I don't respond. Let shadows flow into his space. They keep pulling back toward the estate. I force them to focus.
"Bit excessive for some jokes?"
"You took bets on my death."
"Fair odds, considering." He tries to shrug. Can't. The shadows are too tight. "You've gone soft."
"Have I?"
My hand descends toward his index finger, calculating the break angle, when suddenly I'm holding fabric samples. Two squares of cloth where my fist should be. Cream and off-white. There's a note: "Which one for the morning room?"
My hand stops an inch from his finger. We both stare.
"The cream one," I tell the shadow. What else do I do? It disappears with the samples, leaving me frozen mid-torture, hand raised in what now seems absurdly theatrical.
"Did you—"
I complete the motion. His finger snaps.
"We're going to have a conversation about respect." Another finger. Middle. Ring. My exhausted brain struggles to track. "And territory. And what happens when you call me names."
By the fourth finger, he's sobbing. By the sixth, begging. I'm contemplating the seventh when another shadow appears—something about spoon placement.
"Right side of the plate," I tell it while Felix bleeds on his expensive rug. "No, the other right."
The shadow leaves. Felix has moved to confused whimpering.
"Bring him," I tell Grimm. "We're going home."
His eyes widen. "Home?"
"Did you think we still lived in that warehouse? We've upgraded."
The shadow roads feel longer with a bleeding prisoner. Felix whimpers the entire way, ruining the usual aesthetic. We materialize at the front entrance because dragging him through the gardens seems excessive.
"You live here?"
"Since yesterday." I drag him inside, blood dripping on floors Olivia mopped this afternoon. "Joss, gather the others."
"Which others?"
"Brass Hands, River Guild. Anyone who needs reminding."
"Here? To our—"
"Yes, here."
"I could gather them at a neutral location," Joss suggests. "Keep the estate clean."
She keeps trying to separate.
"Here."
Forty minutes to drag guild leaders from their beds. They arrive terrified, confused. We're bringing enemies to our new house on day two.
The formal parlor looks exactly like Olivia got her hands on it. Doilies covering surfaces that have never seen fabric this delicate. Felix's blood dripping on carpet creates a specific kind of wrong.
"Felix called me the Kitchen King." I let that hang. "Took bets. Skimmed protection money."
"We didn't—" the River Guild representative starts.
"Shut up. You're witnesses." I spread Felix's territory map on the coffee table. Over doilies. "The Copper Hands no longer exist. Their territory is mine."
"You can't—"
Olivia walks in with a tea service.
"Oh! Guests!" She sets the tray down. "I didn't know we were having people over. Is this a late meeting? You all look stressed."
Silence except for Felix's breathing.
"Sugar?" She's already pouring. "Mr. Morrick, you look terrible. Are those fingers supposed to bend that way?"
Felix makes a sound.
"Here, let me help." She pulls out bandages. When did she start carrying medical supplies? "This might sting."
She bandages his mangled hand while twelve crime lords watch. The Brass Hands leader accepts tea with shaking hands. Another takes a cookie.
"You're all up very late," she observes. "Is it quarterly reports? Father always said those were terrible."
"Territory," one croaks.
"Oh, like land management? How interesting." She's serving the River Guild leader, who looks ready to cry. "Cream?"
I watch my enemies process being served tea by a woman in a paint-stained nightgown while their colleague bleeds on upholstery. Several accept cookies. One asks for honey.
"Since you're all here," she says, "might as well stay for early breakfast. I have more cookies, and there's leftover soup."
"We should—" The Brass Hands leader stops.
"Stay," I say. "For breakfast."
Horror on every face.
Olivia bustles out, humming. The crime lords sit frozen, holding teacups like explosives.
"Your territory markers," I tell Felix.
He tells me through tears. Joss takes notes. A teacup rattles.
"The Kitchen King would have killed you. But I'm something worse now. I'm unpredictable. I might murder you, or I might serve you cookies."
"This is insane," the River Guild leader whispers.
"This is expansion." I stand. The room tilts. When did I last eat? "Felix keeps his life but loses everything else. Anyone else want to test my new management style?"
Silence.
"Breakfast will be ready soon. Don't bleed on the doilies."
I leave them there. Crime lords and cookies. Violence and Earl Grey. Joss follows.
"That was either brilliant or completely unhinged."
"Both."
"They don't know what to do with you anymore."
She's right about that.
She pauses. "The Radiant Court's been asking questions. About her."
"Let them ask."
"They're doing more than asking. Movement near the merchant quarter." She meets my eyes. "I could coordinate with our eastern contacts while you rest. Keep her safe here."
Same suggestion. Different angle.
"She is safe. Here. With me."
"You can't watch her every moment. You're exhausted."
"We'll discuss it tomorrow."
She nods, disappears into shadows colder than mine.
The kitchen glows warm at two in the morning. I follow it.
Olivia's surrounded by cooling bread. Four loaves, maybe five. Counter covered in flour. Hair escaping its pins. She looks up, eyes straight to the blood.
"You're dripping on my clean floors."
Not "what did you do" or "who did you kill." Concern for the floors.
"Sorry."
"Yours or someone else's?"
"Someone else's."
"Multiple someones?"
"Yes."
"Tea then." Already moving to the kettle. "Chamomile or mint?"
"Whatever."
I stand there, blood drying, watching her make tea like this is normal. Like I didn't absorb an entire guild through systematic violence. My vision doubles—two Olivias, then one.
"Sit. You're still dripping."
I sit. Nearly miss the chair. She puts tea in front of me—chamomile—then returns to her bread.
"Stressful night?"
"Territory expansion."
"That sounds complicated." She shapes dough with practiced movements. "Is Mr. Morrick alright? His fingers looked painful."
"He'll survive."
"He seemed nice, if overwhelmed." She glances over. "You have blood in your hair."
"Occupational hazard."
"We should get you better work safety equipment."
I almost laugh. "I'll look into it."
We sit in comfortable silence. Me drinking tea I don't deserve. Her shaping bread for my killers' breakfast. The shadows gather around us both, warm from her, cold from my violence, trying to find balance.
"The cream fabric," I say eventually.
"What?"
"For the morning room. The cream."
She smiles. "I thought so too. Better light reflection."
Dawn creeps through windows. Soon my expanded territory needs managing. The Radiant Court needs addressing. Joss needs watching.
But right now, I sit in a kitchen that smells of bread and safety, bleeding on chairs we bought yesterday, planning murder while considering fabric samples.
The Kitchen King.
If only they knew how much worse that makes me.