Reckoning (13 page)

Dad would hardly ever have stayed in a place this nice. He had some ideas about the constitutionality and advisability of valet parking. But occasionally, he’d take me so I knew what to expect and how to get in and out of a nicer class of hotels.

My voice wouldn’t work quite right. My cheeks were wet. “I don’t think I’m dressed for this.”
We’ll stick out. Oh, God, will we ever stick out here
.

“Don’t worry.” Awkward for the first time, Christophe actually patted my elbow. The awkwardness passed, and his face smoothed. He actually looked ready to handle this. “You look lovely. Stay here, let me open your door.”

Christophe took control,
quietly and efficiently. One look from him and the doorman and bellhops snapped to attention, the valet took our car, and our luggage—such as it was—was unloaded with alacrity. The desk clerk had murmured something about a standing reservation, and we’d been whisked upstairs inside of two minutes. Christophe tipped the bellhop, saying something in a low voice, and pushed me gently toward the huge granite-tiled bathroom to freshen up. Clean clothes arrived like a genie had ordered them, so as soon as I got out of the shower there was a new pair of designer jeans and a navy-blue silk T-shirt. I used the hotel soap with abandon, scrubbing away the sweat-film, and tried not to cry. It didn’t work. I was leaking.

The restaurant was Italian, within walking distance, and the type of place Dad wouldn’t have touched with a ten-foot pole. The kind where they have eight different sorts of forks ranked alongside your plate, sneering waiters, and a ties-are-not-optional dress code.

The “Italian” extended to a sort of indoor courtyard full of lush
greenery. I guess you could even call it a grotto, what with the statues.
Naked
statues, in glaring white marble.

The expensively suited maitre d’ had held my seat and laid a green linen napkin decorously in my lap, discreetly not mentioning that I was on a slow leak. Christophe pretended not to notice, and as soon as he settled himself and the water glasses—actual goblets full of crushed ice and a paper-thin slice of lemon arranged just so—were filled, he picked up the menu and examined it critically.

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 the 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.

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.