“Thank you,” Iwhispered.
We rode the rest of the way in silence—Tristan typing on his phone, the driver concentrating on avoiding motorized scooters, and Jarod staring out hiswindow.
Soon, we were traveling down a street lined with pale rectangular buildings devoid of ornate carvings and a crowd that didn’t glitter like the one swarming Saint-Germain. The car slid to a stop in front of a restaurant with a red awning inscribed with loopy white letters forming the wordLayla.
Our arrival attracted more than a little attention. I was suddenly glad for Jarod’s jacket. As the driver opened my door, Tristan pulled something out of his jacket pocket—a little black gun. He checked the barrel, then slid it into the waistband of hispants.
Guns caused so much damage. I was about to ask Tristan if it was truly necessary when Jarod said, “Try not to shoot yourself thistime.”
Tristan snorted. “T’es drôle.”You’refunny.
Jarod grinned, which knocked some of the earlier worry off his face. When he saw that I was still planted on the back seat, he mused, “Having second thoughts about tagging along,Feather?”
I pulled the jacket even tighter and hopped out. Tristan joined me first, then Jarod circled the rear of his car and walked straight into Layla’s, and wefollowed.
A woman toting a slab of slate covered in chalked scribbles gasped, her fuchsia-tinted lips forming a perfect “O” on her otherwise colorlessface.
“Sasha!” she called out, her voice a tadstrangled.
Sasha looked up from a bottle of wine he was uncorking beside a table offour.
She wrenched her head towardus.
I smiled at her, which just seemed to deepen the fine lines puckering herbrow.
Sasha poured the wine at record speed into his diners’ glasses, then set the bottle on their table before hurrying to greet us. “Bonsoir, MonsieurAdler.”
“Have they arrived?” Jarod asked, pleasant asusual.
Sasha’s eyes darted nervously around him. “Not yet. Please, sit. Laylachérie,la bouteille.”Layla darling, thebottle.
As he led us to a table propped against the roughcast wall, his wife all but tossed the piece of slate on a chair before bustling toward the L-shaped wooden bar in the back and through a swinging door. Jarod selected the seat facing the street and leaned against the coarse wall, examining the small space and the two dozen or so people crowding it. The conversations hadn’t picked up again, everyone still much too busy gaping. I loosened my grip on the jacket, the attention fanning heat throughme.
Tristan pulled out the chair opposite Jarod’s for me, then sat beside me just as Layla bustled over holding a dusty bottle of red wine with a tattered label. Jarod gave the bottle a cursory glance while Tristan read the labelslowly.
“Château Montrose ’01. You spoil us,” he said, flashing Layla his customary flirtatiousgrin.
Her cheeks pinked as she uncorked the bottle in one quick pull and tipped it toward my glass. I was about to refuse but remembered alcohol hadn’t cost me any feathers. Besides, declining their gift might offend them, so I let Laylapour.
Once she returned to the table she’d been taking the order from when we’d arrived, Tristan raised his wine. “À la tienne,Leigh.”
“To all of our health,” I countered, lifting my glass and clinking it against his. I waited for Jarod to pick up his glass, but he was still assiduously observing the room, from its timbered ceiling to its clusters of bare bulbs that puddled light on each squaretable.
“Leigh,” Tristan said, pointing to his eyes, then to mine. “I’d rather dodge seven years of badsex.”
“Excuseme?”
“It’s customary to look into someone’s eyes when you cheer. To prevent bad luck in the bedroom. Or wherever else you enjoy getting naked.” He added that last part with a lascivious wink that I’d come to understand was part of his arsenal when interacting with members of the opposite sex, so I neither took his words nor his winkpersonally.
Keeping my eyes on Tristan’s, I took a sip of wine, the sweet alcohol burning a path down my throat. I expected to feel the pinch that preceded a falling feather, thinking that yesterday had been a fluke, but no featherfell.
Relief made me take another sturdier swallow. This time, there was no burn, just a lush aftertaste that reminded me of the cherries growing in the guild’s orchard, which we would harvest before our wing bones appeared and our preoccupations changed. I took another sip of the unctuous nectar and licked mylips.
“Has anyone ever told you that your mouth is a work of art, Feather?” Tristan took a slow swallow of his owndrink.
I startled at his use of Jarod’s nickname. Somehow, it sounded wrong coming from him. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who had thatthought.
“Don’t fucking call her that,” Jarodsnapped.
