Thirty-Five
Lara and I had our February date the week before Valentine’s Day.
Which was Thomas’s birthday.
We were sitting in a fine restaurant where the menu was all in French on the Near North Side, opening after months of having no power. My French, a relic of my time in the public educational system, iscomme ci,comme ça, at my very best. I was wearing a casual grey suit with a midnight blue shirt and no tie, because I had decided I wasn’t going to bring the garrote to my own assassination, if that’s how the evening decided to go. Lara was stunning in a white skirt suit with a midnight blue shirt that matched mine. The place was empty except for us and minimal staff. Lara had called it a soft open.
“Boeufmeans beef, right?” I asked, peering at the menu. “Is that a steak?”
Lara was watching me with amused pale blue eyes. “Would you mind very much if I ordered for you?”
I narrowed my eyes. “It’s not going to be snails, is it?”
Her mouth quirked at the corner. “Don’t you enjoy trying new things?”
“As a trend, no,” I said. “New things have been a little rough on me, ever since”—I paused, musing—“since my old place burned down, really.”
“As I understand it,” Lara said, “that’s around when you got involved with Mab.”
“Probably the least destructive option I had at the time,” I said. “And it’s also when you arranged for that ship to come by after Chichén Itzá. Saved Molly’s life.”
She inclined her head slightly. “Wine?”
“Water, for me, but feel free.”
“Mmm,” she said, her eyes crinkling. “Perhaps I should keep a clear head.”
“Hah,” I replied. I drew in a breath and considered her. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s see what happens. I would like it if you ordered for me.”
“Excellent,” she said. She raised a hand, summoning the waiter instantly, and spoke to him in liquid, native-level French. He replied in the same language, and she said something that made him laugh before he departed.
“Your eyes are paler than usual,” I noted.
Lara focused her eyes on me for a moment, with an intensity that I could all but feel on my skin. Then she cleared her throat, looked aside, and picked up her glass of water. “I’ve not fed since New Year’s Eve.”
Meaning that she hadn’t fed in over a month. Which probably meant something. But I didn’t know enough about specifics to understand what, exactly.
“Um,” I said. “How does that work, exactly? I mean, is that a long time? Not much time? I’ve got no idea what the logistics are like.”
She took a sip of water and set it aside. “It varies from individual to individual, based mainly on how much discipline and restraint one has developed. For me, absent other factors such as major metropolitan battles, I tend to feed once or twice a week. My sisters on most days. My father”—her face twisted—“would do so as a ritual once a year or so.”
I studied her face. “That bothers you,” I said. “Why?”
“Waiting so long between feedings essentially guaranteed the subject would die or be rendered a vegetable,” Lara said. “Even in his restraint, he is a flawlessly selfish machine.”
“Huh,” I said. “So, feeding every day is less destructive to the, ah, subject.”
“Daily instinctive feedings are smaller bites, if you want to think ofit that way,” she said. “Though there are few humans who could withstand that over time without considerable mental damage.”
I thought of Halloween and had to work not to squirm. “Do they heal from it?”
“Over time, yes,” Lara said. “Some faster than others. The youthful more quickly than otherwise. The healthy more swiftly than the sickly.”
“And you get hungry again based on how much supernatural vampire stuff you do. Right?”
“Like anything else, when a Hunger is exercised, it requires more sustenance,” Lara said. “I find it difficult to…maintain a healthy diet, feeding on a daily basis. I am discriminatory in who I will feed upon—they should be physically and mentally healthy. By spreading out my feedings, I am able to remain discriminatory with less risk to a more exclusive pool of subjects.”
“But you haven’t fed in five weeks,” I said. “And your eyes are still blue.”
