Dead Witch Walking by Kim Harrison

face. She tucked it behind an ear, and I watched the line of her jaw slowly move as she ate.
    I had just enough experience with chopsticks to not look like an idiot, but Ivy moved the twin sticks with a slow precision, placing bits of food into her mouth with a rhythmic, somehow erotic, pace. I looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.
    “What’s it called?” I asked, digging into my paper box.
    “Chicken in red curry.”
    “That’s it?” I questioned, and she nodded. I made a small noise. I could remember that. I found another piece of meat. Curry exploded in my mouth, and I washed it down with a gulp of milk. “Where did you get it?”
    “Piscary’s.”
    My eyes widened. Piscary’s was a combination pizza den and vamp hangout. Very good food in a rather unique atmosphere. “This came from Piscary’s?” I said as I crunched through a bamboo shoot. “I didn’t know they delivered anything but pizza.”
    “They don’t—generally.”
    The throaty pitch of her voice pulled my attention up, to find that she was absorbed in her food. She raised her head at my lack of movement and blinked her almond-shaped eyes at me. “My mother gave him the recipe,” she said. “Piscary makes it special for me. It’s no big deal.”
    She went back to eating. A feeling of unease drifted through me, and I listened to the crickets over the twin soft scraping of our sticks. Mr. Fish swam in his bowl on the windowsill. The soft, muted noise of the Hollows at night was almost unheard over the rhythmic thumps of my clothes in the dryer.
    I couldn’t bear the thought of wearing the same clothes again tomorrow, but Jenks told me it wouldn’t be until Sunday that his friend could have my clothes despelled. The best I could do was wash what I had and hope I didn’t run into anyone I knew. Right now I was in the nightgown and robe Ivy had lent me. They were black, obviously, but Ivy said the color suited me fine. The faint scent of wood ash on them wasn’t unpleasant, but it seemed to cling to me.
    My gaze went to the empty spot above the sink where a clock should be. “What time do you think it is?”
    “A little after three,” Ivy said, not glancing at her watch.
    I dug around, sighing when I realized I had eaten all the pineapple. “I wish my clothes would get done. I am so tired.”
    Ivy crossed her legs and leaned over her dinner. “Go ahead. I’ll get them out for you. I’ll be up until five or so.”
    “No, I’ll stay up.” I yawned, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. “It isn’t like I have to get up and go to work tomorrow,” I finished sourly. A small noise of agreement came from Ivy, and my digging about in my dinner slowed. “Ivy, you can tell me to back off if it’s none of my business, but why did you join the I.S. if you didn’t want to work for them?”
    She seemed surprised as she looked up. In a flat voice that spoke volumes, she said, “I did it to tick my mother off.” A flicker of what looked like pain flashed over her, vanishing before I could be sure it existed. “My dad isn’t pleased I quit,” she added. “He told me I should have either stuck it out or killed Denon.”
    Dinner forgotten, I stared, not knowing if I was more surprised at learning her father was still alive or at his rather creative advice on how to get ahead at the office. “Uh, Jenks said you were the last living member of your house,” I finally said.
    Ivy’s head moved in a slow, controlled nod. Brown eyes watching me, she moved her chopsticks between the box and her lips in a slow dance. The subtle display of sensuality took me aback, and I shifted uneasily on my perch on the table. She had never been this bad when we had worked together. Of course, we usually quit work before midnight.
    “My dad married into the family,” she said between dips into the box, and I wondered if she knew how provocative she looked. “I’m the last living blood member of my house. Because of the prenuptial, my mother’s money