The small pixy bristled. “Get Turned, Tamwood,” he snarled. “Why am I here if not to sneak around? The day I can’t evade a baker is the day I—” He cut his thought short. “Uh,” he reiterated, “yeah. I’ll be right back.” Pulling a red bandanna from a back pocket, he put it around his waist like a belt. It was a pixy’s version of a white flag of truce, a declaration to other pixies and fairies that he wasn’t poaching should he stumble into anyone’s jealously guarded territory. He buzzed off just below the ceiling, headed for the kitchen.

Ivy shook her head. “He’s going to get caught.”

I shrugged and edged the breadsticks closer. “They won’t hurt him.” Settling back, I watched the contented people enjoy themselves, thinking of Nick and how long it had been since we’d been out. I’d started on my second breadstick when a waiter appeared. Already silent, the table went expectant as he cleared away the crumbs and used plates. The man’s neck from behind the blue satin shirt was a mass of scars, the newest still red-rimmed and sore looking. His smile at Ivy was a little too eager, a little too much like a puppy. I hated it, wondering what his dreams had been before he became someone’s plaything.

My demon bite tingled, and my gaze roved across the crowded room to find Piscary himself bringing our food. Heads turned as he passed, drawn by the fabulous smell that had to be emanating from the elevated platter. The level of conversation notably dropped. Piscary settled the platter before us, an eager smile hovering about him, his need for his cooking skills to be recognized looking odd on someone with so much hidden power. “I call it Temere’s need,” he said.

“Oh my God!” Glenn said in disgust, clear over the hush. “It’s got tomatoes on it!”

Ivy elbowed him in the gut hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The room went silent except for the noise filtering down from upstairs, and I stared at Glenn. “Uh, how wonderful,” he wheezed.

Sparing Glenn a glance, Piscary cut it into wedges with a professional flourish. My mouth watered at the smell of melted cheese and sauce. “That smells great,” I said admiringly, my earlier distrust lulled by the prospect of food. “My pizzas never come out like this.”

The short man raised his thin, almost nonexistent eyebrows. “You use sauce from a jar.”

I nodded, then wondered how he knew.

Ivy looked to the kitchen. “Where is Jenks? He should be here for this.”