The Witch and the Huntsman Read Online Free PDF

desk. “You may address me as Mr . Schreich.”
    “ Allison Lopez.” I held out my hand, but he just made jazz hands at me, I guess to show that he didn’t like to touch people. I saw that his fingernails were long and lacquered and yellow. Like his teeth. He didn’t offer me anywhere to sit.
    “ You are experienced?” he said.
    “ You mean working in a restaurant? Sure. I’m also a personal trainer.” I certainly wasn’t going to mention being a professional psychic. Or a go-go dancer before that...
    He nodded, although he seemed distracted.
    “ So, what kind of problems do you have with prostitutes?” I asked him. He certainly didn’t look like the type who would; not with female ones, anyway.
    “ Some of the guests demand to have these young girls on the premises. And the creatures dress so poorly and have such terrible table manners. Many meals they will eat with their telephones in their hands! And they sometimes wear flip-flops ! At a winter sports lodge!” His fingernails clicked together in horror.
    It turned out that Mr. Schreich thought any woman under the age of about thirty was a prostitute, so I guess in a way it was almost like a compliment, him mistaking me for one. Aside from the nasty crack about my clothes, I mean.
    He handed me some forms to fill out and then took a wooden coat hanger from a closet. On it was my new uniform; the same salmon-colored shirt and black pants the other two servers were wearing.
    “ This should fit. I will leave you now to change. You may leave your baggage here for your shift, but only for this one occasion. Now hurry, please! You will start with the hors d’oeuvres trays, I think. Yes.” He clapped his hands together loudly twice and then closed the door behind him.
    I had thought about going through his desk drawers and computer, but there wasn’t time. Not right now, anyway. After I got changed, I opened the closet door to put the hanger back. There was a row of them on the rack, most with their uniforms dangling beneath. Four didn’t. Mine was unmarked, but the other three empty hangers all had little tags hanging from their wire necks with names written on them in a crabbed copperplate handwriting. ‘Brittany,’ read one; ‘Kevin,’ read another. I assumed those were the two people I’d already seen rushing around the Krystall Ballroom like chickens with their heads cut off.
    The third tag read, ‘Marisa’...
    “ Ha, you see?” I mentally whispered to Millicent on my way out. “I was so right to come here! Something fishy is totally going on in this place.”
    Aside from the hors d’oeuvres, which I could smell from here.
    “ Just be very careful, dear ... ” came the whisper back.
    It may come as a shock, knowing what a ditz I can be, but I’m actually an excellent waitress or server or whatever. All the physical training and dancing have made me pretty damn graceful, even if I say so myself, and I pick things up fast, almost like I’m reading their minds, haha. Also, I’m just really good with people. I like people.
    But I wasn’t crazy about these people. Crap, what a tough crowd! I mean, I’ve never really believed the old saying that the rich are different than me and you. Living in Beverly Hills, I run into famous faces all the time, and some of them are really nice and actually even humble. My friend Ivy, for instance, never lets her movie parts go to her head—she’s always genuinely thrilled when somebody turns out to be a fan; sometimes I have to drag her away once she starts signing autographs. And Conn, a very wealthy (and did I mention hot-looking) dude who often calls for me personally over the hotline is a very nice person, I’m pretty sure, and not the least bit arrogant. All those ‘Loving the Billionaire’ romance novels have got to be based on something , right?
    But the super-super-rich really are different. At least they were at La Chasse; enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth, anyway. It wasn’t only that I