From the stairwell, he counted about five silhouettes moving to and from the stove, setting out plates and brewing coffee. The hum of voices was all but absent, which left Asher to wonder at nearly half a dozen women working in such regimented silence. His stomach growled, putting paid to any notion of assessing his surroundings for much longer. The bite on his neck smarted as he clomped down the final handful of steps. With Moreau’s warning ringing bitterly in his ears, he took no pains to disguise his tread. If this was the mayor’s idea of a henhouse, Asher would as soon distinguish himself as a nonissue than a threat. Wary faces greeted him at the kitchen threshold, casting a pall of doubt over his success in the matter. “Good morning, ladies.” Asher tried on a smile. “I, uh… Something smells delicious.” None of the women answered. The kitchen was a busy hub, clearly the heart of the house even if it all belonged to a vampire. Its overflowing shelves marked a sharp contrast to the scarcity Asher had witnessed at Willowbranch, where a bit of porridge and a cup of Arbuckle’s was the best he could muster to break the monotony of hardtack and sharp cheese.
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