Instead of being pissed at his impatience, the server smiles and pulls out her pad to make notes.
Not even a hint of purple in his eyes, yet he’s already wielding a touch of his power — charisma or compulsion or maybe just persuasiveness. Only time will tell. I had felt it earlier, threaded through his seemingly unconscious humming as well.
Cal spins back and returns to the booth, slumping across from me again. No charm for me, not that it would affect me on an essence level. “Lay it on me, then,” he says, already belligerent.
“Who orders their dressing on the side?” I ask instead. “Not Lou.”
He scowls at me. “Mum.”
“She wasn’t a shifter.”
“Nope. Mage.”
I hum thoughtfully.
“What? Why?”
“I prefer my salad like that as well.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I don’t give a shit about my brothers.”
“So you said.”
Cal eyes me, head tilted. “You said there was something between us. A bond? That I belong to you?”
“I’m sorry for the phrasing. You are, of course, your own person. But yes. A gossamer-thin thread. We are tied together by the universe.”
He scrunches his face doubtfully. “So try to convince me.”
“Convince you?” I echo as if I don’t understand. I do.
He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them to fist his left hand and start drumming it on the table. “I want the lotto ticket. The fourth one that Trixie didn’t take.”
Would the idea that I know her name when she was so careful to avoid all contact with me terrify Trixie? It’s not as if I need to know her at all to fuck with her fate, of course. But while often rooted in the truth, superstitions aren’t logical.
“It’s not yours.”
“For Danny, then. He’s hers.”
The toddler, he means. “It won’t work for him,” I say. “Jewels and Angie will make sure Danny is taken care of.”
“But not Lou?” Cal juts his chin out as if ready to take a hit.
“Lou has you, yes?” I say gently. But I don’t try to pretend that I’m not already judging Lou and finding her seriously wanting. A big part of that concern is how apparent it is that Lou has formed some judgement of the awry, though she seemed indifferent to the color of my eyes when we first met.
Cal nods stiffly, drawing his clenched fist into his lap as he casts his gaze past me and out the window, likely toward Lou. I have no doubt she’s watching us carefully.
“I’m not a shifter,” he says, seemingly changing the subject when he’s really just picking up the tenor of my own concern. Subconsciously, perhaps. Or maybe he’s studied Lou’s interactions with me and is starting to draw the same conclusions.
“You aren’t.”
“I ain’t a mage either.”
“Correct.”
Emotions twist over his face, too quickly for me to read. “So … we’re connected because I’m like you?”
“No one is quite like me,” I say carefully. “And the why of our connection is just becoming clear to me.”
