The Supernormal Sleuthing Service #1, page 1
Dedication
To Ursula, queen of all monsters, and to William, the boy who lived
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
About the Authors
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Dear Stephen,
Thank you so much for sending me the drawing of the football players you saw when your father took you to the Bears game last fall. You’re right, those are some of the biggest men I’ve ever seen! As I’ve told you before, some of the creatures I cook for here at the hotel are even bigger. Your dad will tell you that’s just a story, of course. But it’s true. (Tell him I’m feeling a little better, if not all better. Neither of you should worry about me.)
I put the drawing up on the wall of my office in the kitchen with all your other wonderful artworks, but not before I showed it to my friend Mr. C. I’ve told you about him before and about how he fancies himself a very sophisticated connoisseur of the arts. Well, it took a little while to explain to him exactly what the pads and helmets were for—he thought the players were knights of some unusual sort—but he agrees with me that you’re supremely talented and that you have a bright future ahead of you.
Mr. C wanted the picture you did in colored pencils of the boats on Lake Michigan, even inquiring if it had a price, unheard of for one such as Mr. C. But it is just about my favorite, because it reminds me of visiting you and your father there in Chicago. I’m so proud that you have so much talent, even if you’re not following the family tradition of showing your talent in the kitchen.
I have to run for now, dear grandson. There’s a vampire staying in the hotel, and I have to make him a blood pudding for breakfast!
Much love,
Chef Nana
CHAPTER ONE
Stephen stepped over the low iron fence and past a sign that read DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS. He wanted to get a better look at an old tombstone. The granite monument was topped with sharp spikes and inscribed in a language he couldn’t read. He didn’t even recognize the alphabet, much less the individual words.
This was a week of firsts: the first time he’d ever been to New York, the first time he’d ever been to a graveyard, the first time he’d ever been to a funeral. The first time he’d ever known anyone who had died.
One of the many mourners gathered for his grandmother’s funeral walked by, then paused when he noticed Stephen. The man was enormous, with shoulders as broad as a football lineman’s, which threatened to burst out of his fancy suit jacket. His hair was brushed back from his forehead and swooped up over each of his ears.
“Fool of a boy. Not all who cross that fence find their way back. Who do you belong to?” The man’s nostrils flared as he leaned over the fence and gave Stephen a hearty sniff. “Ah. You are a Lawson. The prodigal’s son, I imagine. But . . . hmm, there’s something odd about you.”
Was the man implying that Stephen smelled bad? Before he could think better of it, he took a whiff back. “Sorry,” Stephen said, “I can’t tell who you are.”
The enormous man’s eyes narrowed. Um, oops.
“Stephen! Over here!” His dad called from beside the family mausoleum, waving him over.
“Sorry, I have to—” Stephen pointed toward his dad and made a speedy escape back over the fence and away.
The family mausoleum was something else new. Stephen hadn’t known that somewhere in a cemetery tucked away in view of New York City’s skyline sat a marble building with the word LAWSON inscribed above its brass door. It was crowned with a giant mortar and pestle and carved with chef ’s knives and cutting boards and other instruments—some he didn’t even recognize—of his family’s traditional trade. The mausoleum’s heavy door was closed now. His grandmother had been interred behind it following a brief, nearly wordless ceremony that had ended a little while ago. Chef Nana never had been big on speeches.
Stephen picked his way among the mourners. They all seemed taller or shorter or skinnier or somehow sharper than people back home in Chicago.
“I told you to stick with me, buddy,” his dad said as he got close. His dad was a welcome bit of normality, stocky and compact, with short brown hair darker than Stephen’s own sandy blond. He looped his arm around Stephen’s shoulders. “And read the signs for once. This cemetery has some, well, unusual corners to it, and you don’t want to get lost. Or, uh, step on anyone’s toes.”
“Tell me about it. That guy smelled me and called me odd.”
“Really?” His dad gave a nervous half laugh and steered them forward. “There are some people I want you to meet. And a couple of things I need to prepare you for.”
“Okay,” Stephen said, though he didn’t feel much like meeting anybody, especially not any of these strange people. He wasn’t the odd one in this crowd. His dad had sprung a lot on him after they got the news about Chef Nana, like apparently they would be staying in New York so his dad could take her job. Sure, it was summer vacation. And Stephen had been a kind of loner at his school. But Chicago was still home. Mostly he wanted to find a quiet space and think about his grandmother, try to figure out how to believe that he would never see her again, never receive another letter from her, never hear her goofy stories about the hotel’s monsters again.
The knot of people his dad led him to weren’t quite as weird as the other mourners. Well, except that the man who stuck his hand out for Stephen to shake was dressed in some kind of uniform with braids and epaulets at the shoulders. He was also big, if nowhere near the size of the man who had sniffed Stephen.
“You must be Nanette’s famous grandson, the legendary artist Stephen. I’m Julio. I worked with your grandmother at the hotel.”
A stern-looking woman in a sober black business suit smiled gently at Stephen. “We all did. I’m Carmen Gutierrez, Julio’s wife.”
“And his boss,” Stephen’s dad said. His tone was light, but Stephen knew his dad well enough to know it was a strain for him to keep it that way. “Carmen and I have known each other since we were younger than you are now. We grew up at the New Harmonia together. She practically runs the whole place these days.”
The New Harmonia was the exclusive New York hotel where Chef Nana had run the kitchen, where his dad would run the kitchen now, the hotel where they would live. Stephen hadn’t even seen the place yet, so he was still getting used to the idea. Everything was happening too fast.
A short boy about Stephen’s age stepped in front of Carmen as if he had every right in the world to interrupt. He had close-cropped red hair and glasses, and he wore a suit complete with a black bow tie. “I am Ivanos Mercutio La Doyt. And now you have the great honor of meeting my parents, Roman Horatio and Rafaela Katarina La Doyt, whom you are already in debt to for—”
“There’ll be time for that later, Ivan,” Carmen said, stern again. “Julio needs to get your parents to the park.”
Two more adults, pulling suitcases, had appeared beside the Gutierrezes. The slight man wore a sharp suit and a pair of glasses with black frames, and the tall woman a sleek black dress and glasses of her own. The woman gave Stephen an encouraging smile. “We will do our best to get back soon.”
Stephen had no idea what that had to do with him, and the couple had already turned to leave. His dad called after them, “Good luck, and thank you.”
The man nodded over his shoulder.
“Who are they again?”
Ivan said, “They are the New Harmonia’s masters of hotel detection.”
“Hotel detection?” Stephen echoed.
“Later, Ivan,” Carmen said.
A girl with a high, curly ponytail and a flouncy black dress, who was taller than Ivan and clearly related to Carmen and Julio, piped up. “If he’s going to be living at the hotel, somebody has to bring him up to speed.”
“This must be Sofia,” his dad said.
“It’s true,” the boy Ivan said to the girl. “It’s obvious that he doesn’t know anything.”
“Did you just insult me?” asked Stephen, genuinely mystified.
A sound like the world’s largest wind chime rang out across the cemetery, interrupting them. Everyone, even the two rude kids, suddenly stood up straight and turned toward the mausoleum.
Where the strangest person yet stood.
Stephen supposed it was a man, though his features were blurry, as if Stephen were seeing the man from a much greater distance than he actually was. He wore a deep red suit. Everyone in sight was watching him respectfully. Absolute quiet had descended.
Well, absolute quiet except for the kid with the bow tie.
“That’s the Manager!” the boy said, trying to whisper and failing.
Sofia shushed him.
“Friends of the New Harmonia,” said the figure, with a voice that seemed to be made of many voices. “Friends of our beloved Lady Nanette. Thank you for coming today to pay your respects to the greatest knight of culinary alchemy of the last hundred years. And now, as it is written, we mark her passing.”
Stephen thought he’d been confused before. Lady Nanette? Knight of culinary alchemy? He looked over at his dad, but then the entire crowd spoke at the same time.
“Farewell, Lady Knight,” they said.
Stephen didn’t know what to do. He whispered, “Good-bye, Nana.”
The Manager spoke again. “And yet her task is not done.”
Stephen would have sworn that the blurry-faced man’s hands had been empty before. But now his long, pale, skeletal fingers were wrapped around a book. It was old, brown leather with a heavy gold clasp, and had hundreds upon hundreds of yellowed pages between the closed covers.
“Who will take it up?” the man asked. “Who is worthy of her name?”
His dad glanced over at Stephen, then stepped forward. “I bear her name. I am her son and heir, Michael Truman Lawson.”
“Dad?” Stephen whispered. “What are you doing?”
“Michael Truman Lawson,” said the man, “do you take up the duties of your mother of blessed memory? Do you pledge to protect the Guest Right and preserve the peace? Will you return from exile and take up the arms and armor of the most honorable Order of the Knights of the Octagon?”
His dad hesitated. Stephen had never seen his dad look this way: worried and proud and sad and happy at the same time.
Stephen interrupted again. “What does he mean?”
“Quiet,” the Manager said, eyes falling on Stephen as heavy as a hand. “No interruptions are permitted during the ceremony.”
Stephen didn’t say another word.
His dad went down on one knee before the man. With a bowed head, he said, “I pledge my devotion to harmony among all. I will not disappoint the Octagon again.”
The man glided forward, his face a flicker of moving shadows, and touched Stephen’s father once on each shoulder. His words rang out: “Let all within the sound of my voice bear witness! Michael Truman Lawson, a human man, is returned to us, forgiven. He pledges to keep the peace and protect the Guest Right. By my authority, I name him Culinary Alchemist and head chef at the Hotel New Harmonia. Rise, now, a knight of the Octagon!”
The crowd roared. This wasn’t like the roar at a football game. This was a roar, like one a pride of lions would make. Stephen thought he heard animal noises in it. He shivered.
His dad straightened, and the man placed the old book into his hands. His dad bowed to the man, and between one blink and the next, the blurry-faced man was gone. Vanished. Completely.
A woman with a lilt said, “Congratulations, Sir Michael,” and dipped one knee to his dad, then made way for the next of the mourners. They were lining up in a long row on the grass.
Stephen’s dad held up the book. “Honored guests, if you’ll excuse me for just a moment. I need a word with my son,” he said. Then, to Stephen: “You’re probably wondering what that was all about.”
“Dad?” Stephen didn’t know what to say. “Sir Dad?”
His dad guided him to a stone bench beside the mausoleum and laid the book down on it, next to the wooden box that held his spice kit. “This was your grandmother’s recipe book,” his dad said, “but it’s more than that. The Librum de Coquina has been in our family for longer than you can imagine. It’s special. A cookbook and a history book and a powerful badge of office.”
“What kind of office?” Stephen asked. “What’s a knight of the Octagon? Who was that guy?”
“We’ll get to all that. Let me show you something first.” His dad undid the clasp to open the book. The ink was brown against the yellowed pages. “Help me out. Let’s follow this recipe.”
Stephen sometimes pitched in on easy stuff when his dad cooked at home or at Brasserie Hemingway, the restaurant where he worked in Chicago. Not often, though. Stephen wasn’t very good at following directions.
“Open my spice box, Stephen, and get out the mortar and pestle.”
Confused, just as he had been when his dad brought his spice kit with them to the cemetery in the first place, Stephen did as he was told. He opened the old rosewood box and pulled out the marble cup and grinding stone that his dad used to make special spices. Hand-labeled ceramic jars of ingredients were stored in the velvet-lined box, and he removed some of them as his father read aloud from the book.
“Sea salt . . . cinnamon . . . cracked jasper . . . and lark’s tears.” His dad finished.
Stephen had never heard of the last two but found them nonetheless.
His dad took the jars Stephen had set out and poured small amounts from each into the mortar. When the ingredients were ready, he used the pestle to grind them together. A pungent smell, like a bouquet of week-old flowers, rose from the mortar.
“Do you remember how Chef Nana used to tell you about the creatures she cooked for at the hotel? The magical beings from her letters?” His dad held up the marble bowl. “Take a pinch of this and throw it over your left shoulder.”
Stephen almost sneezed at the smell. The spice was gritty against his fingers. He flung it backward.
“The thing about those stories,” his dad said, turning Stephen so he faced the crowd, “is that they all were true.”
The first person Stephen saw was the enormous man who’d sniffed him. At least there was an enormous figure wearing the same suit; only this figure had the horned head and ringed nose of a shaggy red bull. He cocked his head at Stephen, and his nostrils flared, again.
And there was a woman with flowers in her hair, who had a sparkling set of fuchsia wings that extended high above her back. Behind her was a group of people normal from the waist up but with the lower bodies of horses. One of them stamped a hoof. Everyone was impatient in the line.
The line to see his dad. Sir Michael.
Stephen blinked and blinked, and the monsters were still there. He felt he might throw up. Or wake up to discover this was a dream. He wanted to laugh or cry. Or ask his dad a thousand more questions.
Chef Nana’s stories were true. But his dad had been lying to him his whole life.
“I know,” his dad said. “When this is over, I’ll explain everything.”
As his dad walked back to the line, Stephen stared out at the graveyard full of monsters. And then the two kids, who still looked human, appeared in front of him. They were observing him as if he were a specimen they’d placed under a microscope.
“Everyone loved Chef Nanette,” said Ivan. “Well, except for the fae. But most people never talk about your dad except in whispers.”
“My mom pulled a lot of strings to get him this job,” said Sofia. “He’ll probably be fine as long as he follows the rules this time. And you, too, of course. Rules are important here.”
Stephen sank back onto the bench. If the girl was right, he was in big trouble. Stephen was even worse at following rules than he was at following directions.
And here he was in a whole new world where he didn’t even know what the rules were.
CHAPTER TWO
“Here we are,” Julio said from behind the wheel as he pulled the long red car to a smooth halt. He hopped out, shutting the door behind him.
Stephen and his dad sat in the backseat in silence. After the line of people waiting to congratulate his dad was finally done, Julio had returned and waved them into the old-fashioned car. Julio was “Martial Commander, Leader of the New Harmonia’s Perilous Guard,” another knight of the Octagon. Like his dad.
Stephen didn’t know what that meant yet. He didn’t know what any of this meant: the move to New York, the knightly order, the monsters. But for all the strangeness, what he still felt the most was sadness. He missed his grandmother. Chef Nana could have made this make sense.
His dad, though—his dad had been fidgeting and acting weird ever since they got in the car. “You ready for this?” his dad asked. “I’m sorry I sprang it all on you, but I had my reasons. We’ll talk once we get settled upstairs.”
“I don’t have much of a choice,” Stephen said, and climbed out when Julio opened his door with a flourish. A sheathed sword now hung from Julio’s belt.
