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.”