I wiped at my cheeks. The tables were all screened off, either by potted plants or by trellises with climbing vines. All the trouble of air conditioning, and this place was still trying to coax plants to grow inside. I wondered who watered them, and a sharp high giggle died in my throat.
“The décor is awful,” Christophe finally said, evenly. “But the concierge swears the food is good. Do you want wine?”
I shook my head. My hair, still damp, slid against my shoulders. It wasn’t even worth tying back. The aspect was a warmth just under my skin, easing the cramping stiffness of sitting in a car all day.
I cleared my throat. The hum of conversation and clinking of forks against dishes was low music. “The clothes.” I sounded rusty. “Where did you—”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “I have my methods. Hmm. A primavera for you, probably. Something light. Do you object if I order?”
Another shake of my head. Christophe was immaculate again, and the maitre d’ hadn’t blinked at what either of us were wearing. Then again, the jeans were designer, Christophe’s habitual paperthin black sweater was obviously expensive, and Christophe himself had the easy elegance of a fashion magazine come to earth.
I was distinctly outclassed. And how creepy was it that he’d figured out my new sizes? Did they teach that at the Schola? How to size up a girl’s hips with a glance?
Not that I was complaining, really. But still. It was another thing to try not to think about.
“I think I prefer steak. We’ll start with bruschetta, unless you’re a calamari fan . . . no? Very well. What do you want to drink, if not wine?”
“They won’t give me wine.” It was a scandalized whisper. I scrubbed at my cheeks with my fingers, trying to make the tears stop. Thankfully, they were drying up. “Jesus, Christophe!”
That earned me one amused glance. “They’ll give you whatever I say. You worry too much. No matter. What do you want?”
“Diet Coke. If they have it.” I didn’t mean to sound snide. It was actually a relief that he looked so unaffected. The tight ball of panic inside me eased a little. It smelled nice in here—green and fresh and garlicky. Expensive. Quiet, like there was no way a vampire would ever burst in and tear the place up.
He just shrugged, still staring at the menu. “Ruins the palate, but all right. Dru—”
I was saved by a quick little brown penguin of a waiter rolling up to the table. He reeled off the specials in heavily accented English, and Christophe’s eyes actually lit up. He laid the menu down, folded his hands, and busted out something that sounded like Italian.
The waiter looked shocked for a second, but then they started gabbling like old friends. A busboy in a snow-white jacket brought a plate of crusty, steaming bread slices and a little crock thing of butter, a decanter of olive oil and one of balsamic vinegar, as well as a small terra-cotta tub that reeked of heavenly roasted garlic. He also set down two wineglasses and vanished.
The table was going to get crowded if this kept up.
Christophe handed the menus back to the waiter, who actually bowed and backed away.
I grabbed for my water glass. It sloshed a little, because my hand was shaking. “What was all that?”
“He’s Neapolitan; I wanted to practice. Just relax.” Christophe glanced over my shoulder, and I realized he was sitting where Dad would’ve, if Dad could’ve been persuaded to set foot in here. I was tucked back out of sight behind a lattice full of what had to be grape leaves, but Christophe could see almost the whole restaurant, including the opening where the waiters and busboys flowed back and forth like minnows, with efficient little bustling movements. “Have some bread. They spread the garlic on it. Nosferat repellant.”
“Really?” I perked up a little at that.
His face changed slightly. “No. It was a joke. Although the Maharaj have a prohibition against eating garlic. And leeks. But only for their few women.”
I shivered. We hadn’t covered Maharaj very much at the Schola—they were a third-year-class item, like command-and-control systems and the really in-depth Paranormal Physiology courses. And that was when you started learning combat sorcery, too.
The Maharaj were great at sorcery.
For a moment I remembered my bedroom in the Dakotas and the dreamstealer hissing, and the seizures locking every muscle in my body until Christophe threw water over me. I’d found out enough from my tutors at the Schola Prima to shudder at just how much his quick thinking had saved my life.
“Moj boze.” Christophe sighed, laid his hands on the table. Nice, capable hands, his nails clean and the chunky silver watch on his wrist glittering sharply. That was pretty new—he usually didn’t wear jewelry. “I am clumsy today. Forgive me. I meant to make you smile.”
I wiped at my cheeks again with my free hand, took a gulp of cold water. At least the slow leaking from my eyes had stopped. I let out a long shaky breath. Wondered how Ash and Graves were getting on in the cold, palatial hotel room. “It’s not your fault. I just . . .”
I groped for words. He was quiet, head tilted, all his attention focused on me. I’d almost forgotten what that felt like, the way he leaned in and listened.
It was . . . comforting. I set the goblet down, condensation slippery against my tear-damp fingers. Reached for a piece of bread, even though my stomach was still a tight-clenched fist. “I wish you and Graves could get along.” There. We could talk about that. Why not? It couldn’t get any worse, could it?
I almost winced. It probably could.
Christophe looked down. Touched one of the heavy forks set at his place with a fingertip. “Why him?” He pushed the fork a quarter inch out of place, moved it back. The aspect slid through his hair, slicking it down and eating the blond highlights for just a moment before retreating. “Of all the creatures you could choose to have me vie for your affections with, why him?”
I really didn’t think I had affections to vie for, Chris. But I knew what he was asking. The wulfen were second-class citizens at best, according to the djamphir. It bothered me.
A lot.
What could I say? That I was miserably confused? That I felt safe when Graves was around, because it felt like there was nothing I couldn’t handle as long as he was there, steady as a rock? And that I also felt safe when Christophe was there, because he was scary—and completely on my side? That I’d wanted Graves so bad it hurt, and he’d backed off—and that my hormones staged a revolt and made me blush like an idiot whenever Christophe got close enough to touch me? They were oil and water, and I liked them both, but not together. Together they just messed me up even worse.
The waiter saved me by showing up with a bottle of red wine and pouring a ceremonial dollop for Christophe, who tasted it gravely and made a few comments. The waiter’s nose gleamed. He proceeded to pour both of us a glass, set the bottle in a little empty silver bucket on a pedestal near the table, and vanished again.
I stared at the glass of wine like it might bite me. I didn’t look anywhere near twenty-one. This was worlds away from jacking a bit of Dad’s Jim Beam on nights he was out hunting and I was at home wondering if anyone was going to come back to pick me up.
I’d always been so good at avoiding Boy Tangles. It’s easier when you move from place to place—you know not to get attached, and you slide away before a boy can really get his hands on you. But now . . .
Christophe picked up his wineglass. Took a sip like he’d been doing it all his life. Of course, he was older, right? A lot older. He set it down with a precise little movement. “I don’t want to distress you. I seem to do nothing but. So. I apologize—again. Let’s move to other things. Do you like the wine?”
I shrugged. My cheeks were hot. “I’m, uh. I don’t know. I’ve never had it.”
“No worries. They’ll bring you soda in a moment or two. Take what you like, Dru.” He lifted his gaze, and the piercing blue stare was uncomfortable. To say the least. “Take whatever you like. It’s all yours. You haven’t seen t
he good side of our world yet. You have time.”
What could I say to that? I did try a sip of the wine, but it tasted like paint thinner and I was glad when the Diet Coke showed up. By then, the appetizers had come, and Christophe was asking me about routes and highways. So things got to sounding a little more natural, and I didn’t feel like crying.
At least, not much.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I came back from the bathroom to find the table cleared, a fresh glass of Diet Coke, and Christophe gazing at another menu with a serious, critical expression. He didn’t look up as I lowered myself back onto my seat, praying I hadn’t committed any huge crimes against etiquette. They even had mints in the marble-and-wateredsilk bathroom, wrapped and gleaming in a fluted-glass dish.
We’d hashed out the next few days of travel and arrangements. If I thought about that—the next few steps—everything else seemed manageable. Especially since Christophe was like Dad. He asked questions without making me feel stupid, decided things pretty fairly but definitely, and listened to my objections and suggestions. There wasn’t a lot of waffle in either of them. Gran would’ve liked that about Christophe.
The thought pinched under my breastbone. I picked up the Coke in its tall, sweating glass and took a long, long gulp.
A funny metallic aftertaste lingered for a moment. Restaurants are like that; there’s always something that goes off, even at the most primo place.
“Have you ever had tiramisu? Or do you prefer chocolate?” Christophe lifted the dessert menu a little, offering it to me.
I flattened one hand on my stomach over the silk, as if I had an ache. “Nah, I think I overdid it on the bread. Good food. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, anyway.”
“Are you sure?” He looked so hopeful, eyebrows up and his sharply handsome face open and relaxed, that I actually grinned at him.
“All right, I’ll take a look. But no promises.” I took another few long swallows of Diet Coke, set the glass down. It was seriously metallic-tasting, and I made a face.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nah, it just tastes a little weird. They probably need to change the syrup in the machine.” I studied the menu. Half the stuff on it was described in terms that could’ve won an award for obfuscation. “Who writes this stuff? And what the hell is a compote? It sounds like a car part.”
Christophe actually laughed. “Fruit boiled down and sweetened, I believe.”
My eyebrows drew together. “And they do this to rhubarb and . . .” I blinked. The letters looked a little fuzzy. “They have chocolate cake.” My tongue felt a little fuzzy. Maybe it was the garlic.
“Are you all right?” Christophe tensed.
“Yeah, fine. I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.” I handed the menu back. “Go ahead and get what you want. I might steal a bite of whatever. Although I never did like rhubarb much. It’s stringy.”
“Very well.” He tilted his head, and the waiter reappeared. Christophe watched me while his mouth moved, liquid streams of words in another language. The waiter bobbed again, looking absolutely thrilled but strangely fuzzy too, like I was seeing him on a bad TV set.
I blinked again, furiously, trying to make sense of this. The metallic taste got stronger, breaking over my tongue, and a shiver went down my spine.
Something’s wrong.
Christophe didn’t seem to notice. He just kept talking to the waiter and finally handed the menu back. Then he folded his hands neatly on the table where his plate had rested, and watched me. Half his glass of wine was still there, and the surface of the liquid trembled.
“Dru?” Now he sounded concerned. “You’re pale.”
I slumped in the chair, my hands turned to gripping fists on the arms, and the metallic taste crawled down my throat.
Something moved behind me, in the trellis. Christophe said something very softly, but not in Italian. Sounded like Polish, but he pronounced things differently than Augustine. Augie always sounded like he was swearing, and Christophe sounded precise, even with his mouth handling the funny sounds.
I was too occupied trying to stay upright. Someone came around the trellis, stepped up to the table on my side. Someone tall, and slim. I caught a flash of red and my heart leapt into my throat.
It was a caramel-skinned boy with dark glossy hair and liquid dark eyes. He was sharply handsome, but not in the way that yells djamphir—the shape of his cheekbones was different, and he had a pointed chin and a proud beak of a nose. A thin gold hoop gleamed in one ear, nestling against the softness of his hair. He wore a loose red T-shirt and chinos, and he spoke in English.
“Slow and sloppy, old man.” His accent was different than Christophe’s, too. Indian, maybe. Subcontinent, not American, I realized through the fuzz my brain had become. “We have three or four minutes. Don’t worry. She’s just immobile for the moment. Be reasonable, and she’ll be none the worse for wear.”
“She” means me. Immobile? I tried to move, couldn’t. Every muscle had seized up. I could barely breathe.
Christophe’s eyes flamed with blue. The aspect slicked his hair back, and his fangs dimpled his lower lip. He stared at the boy next to me, and his left hand had suddenly tensed, cupped against the trembling table.
It wasn’t the table. My legs were shaking, and I had my foot braced against one of the table supports. The shaking communicated itself through the wood, the liquid in Christophe’s wineglass sloshing now.
“I came to warn you,” the boy continued. “Will you be reasonable?”
Christophe’s tone was low, even, and deadly. “If you’ve harmed her—”
“So it’s true, the monk has taken a fall.” The boy laughed. “As long as djrirosha is administered in the next ten minutes, she’ll be fine. Listen, Gogol, for I bear news. Take your svetocha and hide as deeply as you can. The Elders have made treaty with your father, and count it well worth the cost.”
Gogol? But I knew. That was Sergej’s last name. And Christophe’s. My heartbeat stuttered. Darkness crept into my peripheral vision.
“The Maharaj and . . .” Christophe actually looked stunned. Blond slipped back through his hair as the aspect retreated. “You’re mad. Or lying.”
Maharaj? A faint, dozy alarm spilled through me. Along with sorcery and breeding nasty things, the djinni-children go in for poison. In a big way. And I’d swallowed a bunch of the Coke.
“No, just a traitor to my own kind by telling you this. The Elders have decreed, so the rest of us are helpless. But I bethought myself to come warn you. There are those among us who believe the smaller viper is one we can live with.”
“The Maharaj’rai are breaking with the Order?” Christophe had gone a weird gray shade under his perfectly polished skin. He looked actually stunned. “You’re certain?”
The boy nodded. His earring winked at me. I strained against the cocoon of fuzz holding my arms and legs down. Sick heat began in my toes, rising up my calves an inch at a time. My fingers felt like sausages in a pan, swelling.
Now I knew what being paralyzed was like. My arms and legs were rigid, concrete instead of flesh. The table had stopped shaking. My breath came in short sipping bursts, my heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, and sudden fear that whatever was keeping me from moving would stop me from being able to get any air in at all made me strain to move even harder.
The guy next to me leaned forward a little, and a draft washed over me. Sand, heavy clove spice, and burning. He smelled like he was going to burst into flame at any moment. The touch throbbed inside my head. A heavy, bright blue perfumed flame that would send up ribbons of heavy smoke. That smoke would creep into my lungs and shut them down, and it would turn into a green-glass snake with bright cruel eyes and feathery wings—
“One moment.” The boy made a quick gesture. There was a snap of glass breaking, and Christophe half-rose, the table jolting as he hit it. A cold wind blew over my face, brushing my hair, full of the smell of roses. The iron bands aro
und my chest eased, snapping one by one, and the tingling in my fingers and toes washed away all at once. “Huh. Look at that, her lips are blue. And yet she’s still pretty. Pleasant travels, Gogol.”
Christophe swore, but the boy vanished on a draft of spice-laden wind. So it wasn’t just djamphir who could do that. I’d have bet money nobody in the restaurant had even noticed him.
I slumped in the chair, pins and needles ramming through my limbs. Then Christophe was on his knees, both my nerveless hands in his, his skin so warm it burned. I made an unhappy little sound, a kittenish mewling, had to stop halfway through because I didn’t have the air.
But I could breathe again. The back of my throat tasted like metal, and roses. The numb rigidity in my arms and legs started to drain.
Christophe’s lips moved, soundlessly. The world went away on a rush of gray tinted with rosy pink, and the touch tolled inside my head like a bell.
Maharaj. This is bad news. Seriously bad.
The world came back like a pancake flipped over on a griddle. Christophe, saying my name.
“Dru? Dru. Open your eyes. You can breathe; it’s all right.” He still had my hands, so hard my bones creaked. I coughed, weakly. Everything was too bright. I swayed a little in the chair.
“Whaaa—” My tongue wouldn’t quite obey me. I sounded drunk. Great. We were in a restaurant, I’d just been poisoned or something, and now I sounded three sheets to the wind. Dad would have a total cow.
The hard pinching sensation in my chest reminded me that I didn’t have to worry about that. Not right now. Not ever again.
And oh God but that was the wrong thing to think.
Something cool and damp touched my cheeks. I blinked. The penguin waiter was dabbing at me with a wet linen napkin, babbling something at Christophe, who gave short choppy answers. He watched me closely, and when I started pulling weakly at his hands, he finally relaxed a bit.
“There, kochana. All’s well.”