“It’s fairly known in even human culture. You know, from Greek mythology and all that.”
She didn’t know about Iko, so I wasn’t sure why that had thrown me. I guessed because cyclops were so rare in the world and Iko was the only blind one I’d ever met that it was difficult not to feel like she was directly referencing him. Most vampires didn’t give a second thought about ever being disabled because the only real lasting injuries we could have were burns and losing limbs, and even that was pretty rare.
“Did I say something wrong?” she murmured when I was quiet.
“No, not at all. Actually, my best friend is a blind cyclops who lost his eye in a fight.”
“What? Really?”
I nodded and her expression grew adorably shocked.
“Holy shit, what are the chances?”
“I’m not sure, but it is a bit uncanny. What’s even more uncanny is how we met.”
“Ooh, tell me!”
I told her about the speakeasy, our mutual love of cardigans and soft fabrics, and the few adventures we went on before Iko officially retired from the rambling life.
She carried our plates to the table, and somehow the scents intensified. Enough so that I actually felt drool start to pool in my mouth, which hadn’t happened with physical food since… I couldn’t even remember.
“I really can’t believe this,” I said as I looked at the colorful stew, the orange of the liquid contrasting beautifully with the yellow of the potatoes, the red of the tomatoes, and the bright flecks of green coriander that I had never quite adjusted to calling cilantro. It was a painting of flavors I hadn’t realized I’dmissed.Howhad I let myself forget? “I haven’t thought about this in decades.”
Once more, Naomi flushed as she sat down across from me. “Well, I wanted to make something special. You had a really rough go of it earlier this week, so I looked up comfort foods from your home country. I wasn’t sure how accurate it was, considering, you know, you were there over eighty years ago, but I’m happy to hear that this is a dish you enjoyed. I hope I did it justice.”
“Judging by the smell alone, you would have made Palwasha incredibly proud.”
Naomi’s eyes widened, tears forming in the corners, and that’s when I also realized she was just as out of her depth as I was. Judging by what she’d told me about dating as a latent shifter, she’d never gotten this far in any relationship.
“Thank you, Rowan. Really. And I read this is usually served with a bread called sangak, but I had theworsttime finding a recipe. If you like this, maybe I can make it again with that? A couple of articles said that it’s soaked in the broth and served as a first course called, uh… I hope I’m pronouncing this right, but tileet?”
I could cry. I didn’t, but there was an undeniable lump in my throat. These meals represented the love I’d felt as a child. The open arms of my adoptive parents, who never once cared that I was whiter than the bones of their dead unless they were defending me from others who meant to hurt me because of that.
But it also reminded me of Ibrahim. Unlike me, he was a nightwalker from the desert, the one who had found me as I was bleeding out. I could still see the way he walked to me so perfectly, impossibly beautiful and yet somehow intimidating, perhaps even threatening at the same time.
“You are dying, Ya Bhai.”
I’d been cold, so cold, an unusual thing for the hot area where we lived, my supplies taken but my weapon still gripped in my hand. It had been lawless raiders that had overwhelmed me, but I took satisfaction in the ten or so other bodies strewn around me. I had an arrow in my chest, but the real sucking, draining sensation came from the wound across my middle.
I felt a gentle touch on my hand, and it brought me back to the present.
“Are you okay?” Naomi asked.
“I am,” I affirmed, albeit somewhat shakily. “Just reminiscing about my sire.”
“Your sire’s name was Ibrahim, right?”
I nodded, throat thick.
“Do you want to tell me about him?”
Did I? For some reason, I wasn’t sure. “You don’t want to hear about all that,” I said out of habit, because I was used to boring people whenever I talked more than five minutes straight.
Naomi gazed at me with that open, interested expression she wore whenever I talked about my job, music, or other passions. Hell, she’d even worn it when I’d told her Brahm’s gotcha story. And it never once, not even for a single second, seemed fake.
“But I do, Rowan. If you want to tell me, I do want to know. And if you’re not ready, that’s okay too.”
This woman was too good to be true.
