Page 40

Rising Stakes

His body felt like it had been slammed by a wave. As the door shut Vassago and his past behind him, there she was, walking past, talking into her phone, oblivious to his presence.

Helena had dressed in a smart scarlet suit. Her red-gold hair was twisted up and pinned in a beautiful bun, taming her waves. She wore flats that clicked as she jetted through the space.

Yet he couldn’t remember how to do anything but lo ok at her.

He was right back in that moment… that moment when he had first laid eyes on her, standing there in the wreck of her kitchen, her eyes wide and watering from the residuals of the summoning circle. His heart ached then, and now, at the sight of her. Her eyes then had been so wide and frightened, but the entire time, she treated him with courtesy and politeness. Not something he had known much of. She had been desperate to get out of the situation. And he had let her off the hook.

Following her, like his heart was tied to a string that was attached to hers, she led him back to the staging area, which was now empty, and through another set of double doors to an eno rmous set.

It was in the same ballroom as before, but this time, the snowfield decorations were long gone. Up on the stage at the far end was a judge’s platform with fashionably dressed people talking to each other over microphones and into cameras focused on th eir faces.

More cameras were set up throughout, in a dozen or so little clusters. In the center of each of those clusters were two tables set up at an angle to each other with mini–kitchen setups lined up behind. Just like every other competition, equipment was arranged, waiting to be used, on the counters, but this time there were little cards in front of them, all denoting which culinary company donated what and what website to go to find the exact ones displayed. The other chefs were setting up at their assigned places, checking equipment and ingredients, talking to each other about their game plans. The racing drivers’ analogy was in full force here, with different colored chef’s coats and symbols embroidered over their bre ast sides.

Rafferty ran his hand over where his emblem would be, his fingers finding threads. Looking down, he saw an image drawn in scarlet thread with the words “Scarlet Promotions” writte n beneath.

He was wearing his lady ’s colors.

Into that joyous chaos, Helena beelined through, encountering others from her office, all working to get this show on the road. A couple of times, her glance went to an empty station, and Rafferty knew that one was his, by, if nothing else, the deeply sad expression on her face.

Maybe he was being a coward, but he didn’t want to distract her from her work. Now that he had seen her, he knew the sight of him would cause her pain. And he suddenly was n’t ready.

When she turned away, he went over to the station. He wasn’t surprised at all to see it was opposite Eleanor’s.

“So did you and Vassago get things squared away?” she asked, as if that were a normal thi ng to say.

“You call him Vassago ?” Rafferty ran his hands over his counter, looking the equip ment over.

“It’s what he said his name was, so yeah,” she countered.

“Fair enough,” he shrugged, finding a small sheet of paper waiting for him on the end. Three rounds were typed up with lines underneath them, along with instructions and parameters for e ach round.

“Cookies, cupcakes, and full cakes,” Eleanor said, even as his eyes discerned that from the written words. “She’s practically handing me the victory.” She glanced at Rafferty with a smug smile, expecting him to respond to her challenge.

“Yes, you will win,” he said, setting the list down and spying the ingredients on the counter at the back end of the room closest to the ballroom kitchens. He knew his answer disappointed her, but he didn’t really care. This wasn’t about winning for him. It was only doing this last thing f or Helena.

I’ve interfered in her life enough, he realized. And after what I said, she may not want me back, but I said I would do this for her, so I will.

Maybe what he was thinking was written on his face because Eleanor’s wry, challenger smile shifted immediately. Her eyes widened as if he had slapped her, then narrowed into piercing, d ark anger.

“How dare you?” she spat with righte ous anger.

It was so abrupt that it jarred Rafferty out of his inner thoughts.

Confused, he met her fur ious gaze.

“No, don’t look at me with those puppy dog eyes. You don’t get to call me a cheater and then pretend you didn’t just do that,” Eleano r snapped.

Rafferty recognized her reaction for what it was. He had only seen it from those who knew they had used him to cheat and had deluded themselves they ha dn’t been.

He hadn’t changed the game so they could win: They had won it by th eir skill.

He hadn’t outwitted their rivals: They had beaten them using their cleverness and superior intellect.

He hadn’t changed things so that they could reach their desired goals, shutting doors on other dreams that would have won: They had been more talented a nd worthy.

And on and on and o n it went.

It was the guilt one felt when they had made a deal wit h a demon.

If he had needed confirmation that Eleanor was making a deal with a demon, this would hav e been it.

Rafferty suddenly felt exhausted. “What you decide to do is none of my business. I’m not her e to win.”

Eleanor crossed the space, getting too close to him. Despite the urge to, he didn’t back down but instead leaned on the counter as he looked down into her fierce eyes, claiming his space.

“That is really rich coming from you,” she hissed, pitching her voice down as her eyes skimmed quickly around them to see if anyone was listening or noticing.

Which, of course, they were. How could they not be? But no one came close to in terfering.

It didn’t deter Eleanor. “What else am I supposed to do when you are just like the rest of them.”

That was a very loa ded “you.”

“What did Vassago tell you?” he asked, knowing better than to guess and accidentally tell her more than she alr eady knew.

“Vassago didn’t have to tell me anything,” she said proudly, knowingly. “Neither did Helena, when she tried to make this deal with me.”

Rafferty’s heart skipped a beat. “Helena is not a demon,” he said as if maki ng a joke.

But Eleanor’s gaze did n’t waver.

She knew. He had no idea what that meant, but she knew about Helen a already.

“Helena is not a demon,” he repeated, this time very softly, not with any warning. He didn’t feel the need to do that. He had a conviction that he hadn’t had before. It was simply true. Helena was not a demon, and he wondered now how he could have ever d oubted it.

And even if she was, she would find her way back.

Rafferty couldn’t tell if that thought was his or if it came from a different source, but it flooded him with calm.

A calm Eleanor did not share, her smirk becoming more derisive, almos t a sneer.

“What? You think she’s an angel? Then you are deluding yourself. She tried to tell me the same thing; that she just wants to help me.”

So much had happened in the two weeks he had been gone. “She does,” Rafferty insisted.

Eleanor’s jaw shifted. “At least Vassago is being honest about his in tentions.”

“And he’ll drag you to hell if you go through with this,” Rafferty said. “Believe me , please.”

In response, just as a helper came by to drop off a package of basic ingredients, Eleanor seized the bowl of sugar from the box they carried for Rafferty’s station and promptly dumped it on the ground. The helper gasped and a camera guy beelined over to record. Eleanor didn’t acknowledge any of them, just simply stared down her rival, cruelty in h er giggle.

“Or maybe I’m playing them both off of each other. One double-dealer to cancel the other out.” She then glanced at the camera, a quick, almost-too-late calculation washing over her face. She was probably wondering if anything she had just said had been recorded and if she was in trouble. She took another step back, choosing retreat as the better part of not goin g to jail.

“Good luck today,” she said, finally backing away now that more attention was on them. “Thanks for the h ead game.”

Rafferty sighed, then regarded the pile of wasted sugar on the floor. He fetched the bowl she had dumped it from and angled down to try to scoop up what he could that hadn’t touched the ground. Such a waste in the king’s kitchen would have been un thinkable.

“Oh no, sir, you don’t have to do that,” the helper insisted, waving their hands at the bowl as if to shoo it away like it was a fly. “We’ll get this cleaned up and get you n ew sugar.”

“That’s not necessary.” But her flapping hands kept insisting, and another helper approached with a broom and dustpan, already contaminating what was left of the sugar with it before he could obj ect again.

So, he let them, stepping back and giving himself a chance to think. It was only than that her parting words hit him. “Or maybe I’m playing them both off of each other. One double-dealer to cancel the o ther out.”

His heartbeat sped up as the implications rattled him. No, no, no. Helena made a deal? he thought. And it wasn’t really a question, it was a certainty. If she thought she could save someone by making a deal with them, putting her own freedom and soul on the line, she wo uld do it.

Because she’s trying to prove something.

Trying to prove that she’s not evil.

A pair of words floated up in his mind, ones he would never use, would have never known to use. Ones given to him from… somew here else.

Survivo r’s guilt.

“Is there anything else you need, sir?” a third helper asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Yes, I have a few special ingredients I want to use, and if I can get a moment to talk to Helena Rhodes, I would appreciate it,” he answered politely, forcing himself to stay calm. Panic would do the opposite of what he wanted r ight then.

The helper looked like they had swallowed a bug but nodded. “Of course, do you want to report this to our HR? I can connect you up to our production manager…”

“No, that is not necessary. It’s just sugar. Eleanor and I have… history. I just want to speak to Helena, if I could,” he insisted, wishing, not for the first time, that he still had a demonic aura to persuade this person to just do what he wante d already.

“I’ll see what I can do, but she is very busy,” the helper said, lifting a microphone bit on a cord attached to both an earpiece and a walkie-talkie attached to their hip. They turned away to talk softl y into it.

He supposed it was the most he could hope for at that moment without powers to directly snap to her location. Though he was tempted to go search for he r himself.

The helper turned back after a moment. “Ms. Rhodes said to stay put, that she will come to speak with you very soon.” They paused a moment, listening to their earpiece. “She also says to say, thank you for coming and representing Scarlet Promotions. It means the world to us… I mean her. And good luck winning the com petition.”

“So she will come talk to me?” he pressed, not liking it.

Again, another pause as they listened. “Yes. She promises. She’ll be over with you soon. Just wait here and please enjoy the competition. She knows you can do it,” the y recited.

“Okay, thank you.” His heart sank, even as it didn’t slow its pace. His hands were itchy, but given no other place to put the energy, he went back over to Eleanor’ s station.

Before she could flinch away, he grabbed her upper arm, holding her in place. “What deal?” he demanded, the intensity in his voice too urgent to give much hush to his voice.

Eleanor glanced anxiously over at the helpers, all watching with their own worried expressions that they had a bigge r problem.

Rafferty couldn’t have cared less. “With Helena. What was the deal?” he demanded.

“ Not here—”

“What. Deal?” He bit off the words.

Eleanor swallowed. “If I win, she’ll pay my price with Vassago to get me out of his clutches.”

He stopped breathing, his eyes going wide, his heart skipping a beat, then tattooing like a gallop ing horse.

Rafferty shook his head. “No,” he said, the word falling out of his mouth, as if just saying it would change what had already happened. His mind raced. “Does… does he… does Vass ago know?”

“That I’ve screwed him out of his deal for my soul? No, of course not. I’m not an idiot.”

“Yes, yes, you are. The biggest idiot in the world,” he said, and went back to his station, her retor t unheard.

He needed to bake something.