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 around 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.”
Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t think this is at all well. “I think I want to leave now.” It was a high breathy sentence, like a little girl savagely embarrassed at a party or something. “Before something else happens.”
“No dessert?” But one corner of his mouth lifted slightly. How he could make an almost smile look so grim was beyond me. “Very well. Come. You can stand. And if you can’t, I’ll help.”
“Will la signorina be—” The waiter was having some trouble with this. I didn’t blame him.
Christophe said something else, with a rueful expression.
Amazingly, the round brown man chuckled. “Amore!” He kissed his fingers and fluttered them in the air and rolled away, still laughing.
Christophe’s face fell. “Idiot.” He threw some money on the table and practically dragged me out of there.
I didn’t have a chance to protest—the ground was heaving underfoot, like a dog’s back trying to shake a flea. The wet sticky darkness outside enfolded us, and the jasmine bushes planted outside the restaurant threw their cloying all over me. My stomach revolved, settled unhappily. “Jesus,” I whispered. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him I’d proposed to you and you fainted.” Christophe sighed. “Moj boze. The Maharaj.”
“You what?” I almost fell over, but Christophe yanked me back onto my feet. Whatever the boy had sprayed in my face had taken care of the poison, I guess—but I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t like not being sure about something like that.