“Let’s get a little of everything,” Galvan said, tapping the menu on the table for emphasis. “Don’t argue. The menu isn’tthatlarge, and I’m paying.”
Oliver wanted to object, but beneath Galvan’s veneer of zeal, he could see the wistfulness tug at his eyes as he took in the empty dining room. This would be a last meal of sorts, and he was sharing it with him.
“That sounds wonderful. I’ll try anything, especially if you like it.”
The words escaped Oliver’s lips before he could stop them, but the subtle hint of surprise followed by warmth rather than disgust was enough for him to not regret it. Before Galvan could respond, the waiter bustled over with a pot of tea and small cups. Galvan chatted with him for a moment before rattling off a handful of dishes Oliver had never heard of. Pouring each of them tea, Oliver held the hot porcelain cup in his hand and breathed deeply. A smile crossed his lips at the earthy aroma. He preferred coffee, but the simplicity and ritual of tea made him feel peaceful.
“Before the food comes, let’s discuss the plan and what we know so far,” Galvan said, keeping his voice low as he scooted his chair closer.
“Sister Mary Agnes was probably murdered inside the monastery through some sort of magical strangulation or suffocation,” Oliver began. “It could be a human or a creature, but there was no obvious ritualistic summoning. I assume Newman would have reported if one of the nuns mentioned her acting strangely.”
“Plus, most demons don’t move their victims. They might drag them off to eat them, but there was no sign of a struggle. I’m also fairly certain I was attacked by a human. I managed to hit them with the poker. It felt like hitting legs. Only two of them, mind you.”
“Can you remember anything about them?”
Galvan deflated and took a sip of tea. “No, they attacked me from behind. They were devilishly strong, though. I could barely move, and there was no way to fight them off. Sister Mary Agnes didn’t stand a chance against them.”
“All right, so let’s assume it was a human with powers. That means it was probably someone within the society or someone who knows someone within the society.”
A chill ran through Oliver at the thought. He wasn’t certain about the specific rules that governed the wards. The Paranormal Society drew in those with extranormal abilities like moths to a flame, but common folk didn’t wander up to the building unless they were invited by someone who worked there. Someone they worked with might be a murderer.
“We should talk to Gwen— Miss Jones tomorrow or Monday about the wards before we start jumping to conclusions.”
“Good idea. We should probably go to the library, anyway. I tried to do some research on suffocation magic and came away with very little.”
“I would assume anyone with an air affinity could hypothetically do it, if they were able to create an air current strong enough.”
Mid drink, Galvan let his hand drop. “Or anyone with telekinesis.”
“It wasn’t Gwen,” Oliver said more forcefully than he intended.
“I didn’t say it was. There are quite a few people involved with the society who have telekinesis. You have to admit, it is a possibility. If you can move objects, you can probably choke someone.”
“I know. But don’t get her in trouble unnecessarily.”
“I won’t, and believe me, I don’t think Miss Jones was involved. Speaking of being involved, we should talk to the priest, too. He’s familiar with the layout of the monastery, he knew Sister Mary Agnes, and he could easily slip in and slip out without anyone paying him too much notice.”
“Powers are highly frowned upon in the church.”
“But people do slip through the cracks or hide who they are,” Galvan replied with a pointed look. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow morning after mass ends.”
Oliver smelled the food before he saw it. His mouth watered at the rich, salty aroma of chicken and pork followed by the sulfurous punch of cabbage and egg. The waiter loaded the plates into the center of the table, laying out chopsticks for each of them. He must have thought better of it because he plunked a fork in front of Oliver before leaving. Running his gaze over the piles of glistening meat and steaming vegetables, Oliver’s stomach growled loudly enough that Galvan raised an eyebrow.
“So what do we have?”
Patiently explaining each dish, Galvan pointed out some Oliver had heard of, like chop suey and chow mein. Others, like egg foo young, wontons, and sweet and sour pork, he had never heard of, but if they tasted half as good as they looked, he would be kicking himself for not coming sooner. Deftly grabbing a wad of noodles with his chopsticks and plopping them into his bowl, Galvan motioned for him to dig in. A nervous chuckle escaped Oliver’s lips as he picked up the fork.
“Probably for the best.”
“With your knife skills, you would probably pick up chopsticks in no time. Here, I’ll show you.”
Galvan had far more patience than Oliver gave him credit for. After so many bad experiences, Oliver had expected Galvan to snap at him or give up when his fingers repeatedly fumbled, but he didn’t. He showed him how to balance the chopsticks between his fingers without making his hand cramp. Each time, he gently readjusted his grip and wrist, sharing in his joy when he got the first hunk of chicken into his mouth without shooting it across the table first. Within a few minutes, he was passably competent, though noodles were a struggle and rice seemed to be impossible to eat despite it being a staple.
“What do you think?” Galvan asked between mouthfuls of sweet and sour pork and rice.
“I think dumplings are far too slippery,” Oliver replied under his breath. Giving up, he picked it up with his hand and popped it in his mouth. It was his fifth one, and he was probably making a glutton of himself, but Galvan didn’t seem to care. “Slippery but delicious. Everything has been wonderful. Thank you for taking me here, Galvan.”
“You should probably call me Felipe. It doesn’t make sense to stand on ceremony when you’ve seen me dead, don’t you think?”
