The monster pulled out a high-backed wooden chair with a cheerful green gingham seat cushion, very politely, and Bea sank into it despite goosebumps spreading down her arms at something so dangerous standing right behind her. A second chair without a cushion was obviously arranged just for him, since a stack of fresh newspapers stood to one side of the nested plates and Wren hurried to pour coffee.
“Mum?” The big guy looked almost eager, offering the carafe; her heart gave a strangling, terrified leap. Months spent doing surveillance and attempting to avoid this very fellow’s notice was a hard habit to break.
“No, thanks,” she managed. Should she pretend a Russian accent? She’d sound like an idiot. “I’m, uh, more of a tea person.” Caffeine withdrawals were nasty on stakeouts, and staying mostly away from java meant occasionally slamming some espresso before a meatpacking shift made a positive difference.
Maybe I’d’ve swung the stake faster if I’d been on a quad latte. The thought was a slap of cold water, and Bea exhaled shakily.
The monster clearly read The New York Times, which totally tracked. Underneath it on the pile was the Causeway Daily, though, and she caught sight of a moderately large headline.
—VERLY BUILDING GAS LEAK.
Could she risk reaching for a paper? Should she say something about catching up on her reading, dare the monster to snatch the Daily out of her hands? Bea peered at the letters, wishing the type was bigger, willing her eyes to stop stinging.
“Tea?” Mrs. Martinez was on the case. “English Breakfast, Earl Grey? Or herbal—chamomile, perhaps? We have chai as well. Just say what you like.”
The monster’s dark gaze rose over the edge of the Times. If it was a warning, it was a great one, because Bea suddenly had zero desire to rock the boat. “Whatever you have is fine, ma’am.”
“So easy!” The woman beamed pacifically, bustling back for the kitchen—was she on something? Did he drug the help?
I am beginning to think four years of research wasn’t nearly enough. They had included a lot of guesswork, a boatload of praying to a god she couldn’t believe in after Jared’s death, a whole lotta assuming. But Jesus, what else were you supposed to do when a monster killed your brother?
And he sat there reading the paper like it was any old day of the week. What would he do if she started screaming? Could she get to an outside door in time? Would the ‘staff’ help him, or…
Wren loaded his plate and began chowing down Continental-style, knife in one hand, fork in the other. The ‘driver’ Hardison drifted in, doing the same but with American manners, left hand in his lap unless using a heavy silver butterknife to slice pancakes. The younger man was clearly on best behavior, glancing at the monster once or twice as if for approval. Mrs. Martinez had a spot at the table as well, but the other two maids didn’t show up after a certain point and the cheerful woman was up out of her chair so often—fetching, arranging, bustling, refilling—that just watching her was exhausting.
Finally, Bea managed to get a good look at the Daily, and she went cold all over for the fiftieth time since waking up.
EVERLY BUILDING GAS LEAK, OWNER MISSING.
That was the big morning news in-city. Chris Everly was presumed dead.
CHAPTER 14
She lasted longer than he thought possible or advisable, sitting pale and composed in the place of honor, politely refusing so much as a sip or morsel. Persephone at her first feast, watching narrowly as her host set aside a broadsheet in order to peel a tangerine.
Such luxury these days, so much ripe fruit at every table. Mounds of apples, citron varieties, pears, fraises, other berries, bananas in supermarkets, other treasures spilling from the stands; he still sometimes could not fathom how calmly mortals accepted the miracle. Every age was one of wonder, even those plagued by dissolution.
Citrus had a great deal of vibrancy, though it could not match her scent. He did wish briefly for a pomegranate and a silver spoon to free the seeds. Would she recognize the gift?
“Here.” He offered the small fruit, wrenched from its protective carapace. “Try it.”
A tight, unamused smile. Her gaze fluttered like a wounded bird, evading his; she took the tangerine with delicate care, avoiding even his fingertips, and settled it on her salad plate. A polite noise, her lips moving in what could have been thank you.
Yet she visibly trembled. Fangmarks on her slim throat had paled, white and worn-looking as old scars; the healing agents were perhaps overwhelmed by just how much stress her lovely near-mortal body was under. Sleep had done some good but her eyes were still shadowed, the silken fall of her hair haphazardly combed but so irresistible.
A measure of tousling suited her very well—slightly more preferable than the sleekness she’d sported at the party, though that was also decidedly attractive.
Wrenfeldt clearly decided to help the housekeeper bear the conversational burden, complimenting the house and querying politely of Hardison how moving the vehicles had gone, if the garage was up to snuff. Lukas, freshly observant, noted slight changes in social mores, flickers and cross-currents of subtle mortal communication. His new cover felt far more natural than Everly had, both his perceptions and reactions polished to shining.
Such an immense gift, and at its heart this pale, fearful stranger, scorching away uncounted centuries of dust.
“Excuse me.” She unfolded, laying a gilt-threaded linen napkin beside her untouched setting. “Not feeling well. Jet lag, sorry.”
And she fled—no doubt almost blindly, for her pretty eyes were now red-rimmed. She had blooded him slightly, after all, and was so exquisitely sensitive. Initial effects of the Gift were wearing through, which meant she needed another bite, and feeding as well.
Conversation died, though Wrenfeldt was largely unruffled. The housekeeper looked worried, clearly hoping she had not offended; Hardison hunched over his plate, forgetting laboriously acquired manners for a moment.
“Well done,” Lukas allowed, as he rose. “We are under maximum security; you all know what that means.”
