by Kevin Hearne
If you like, but there are plastic bits and I doubt those will be very yummy.
It was dinnertime, but we had a couple of hours before we had to meet Leif at Granny’s Closet. I asked Granuaile if she was up for a gustatory challenge.
She eyed me suspiciously. “What do you mean? Chug a jar of habañero salsa or something like that? Because I’d rather save time and set my ass on fire with a match.”
“No, much more interesting than that, not so painful. Do you like to try unusual foods? Stuff that you’ve never eaten before and probably never will again?”
“Ah, stuff you eat just so you can say later, ‘I ate that once’?”
“Precisely. There’s a place in town with a very unusual menu. We can try that and then head to Granny’s to chase it with some beers.”
“Okay.” Granuaile shrugged. “I’m game. Sounds fun.”
Heh! Yes, I am. Remember the Nicaraguan chupacabra cheese?
You’re on. Say good-bye to those five sausages. I know she’ll make it. She has a proud streak.
Chapter 16
The place in question was called the Double Dog Dare Gourmet Café. It’s the only place I’ve ever found that provides patrons with a barf bag—and it’s not because the food is ill prepared. To the contrary, it’s exquisite. They just serve items that most Americans cannot fathom putting down their throats, and the reactions, when they happen, are all psychologically based. That being the case, they have a rather unique ordering system and service style.
Everyone gets a different menu from which to order, and you don’t order for yourself—you order for your dinner partner. You pick five items from the menu by silently checking off a list and handing it to the waiter. All five of them are put on a single plate in very small portions, and then you get the plate put in front of you that your partner has dared you to eat—and vice versa. You don’t get told what each item is until after you eat it. Hence the barf bags. It’s all part of the charm.
The waiters are very careful to inquire about food allergies beforehand, and in some cases you have to sign a waiver before you get served.
When the ordering system was explained to Granuaile, she smiled and then she perused her menu with relish, determined to put me off my dinner. My smile mirrored hers; ordering was one of the best parts of the process. I toyed with the idea of having mercy on her, but I knew she wasn’t going to have any on me, and, besides, I wanted to give Oberon a decent shot at winning his five sausages. Remembering that Granuaile was a bit sensitive to smells, I ordered the most pungent items I could think of, except for one fried item.
It was probably a bit unfair. I’ve been around and tried some unholy culinary atrocities in my time, so I knew I’d be able to hold down everything. She might surprise me with something, but nothing was going to make me ralph at the thought of it.
We took it easy on the drinks, ordering iced tea. Oberon was outside, camouflaged, sitting down out of the way of the door. I ordered him a full order of yak liver to go and let him know.
I was sitting facing the door—an old paranoid habit—so I flicked my eyes over there casually as a sharp-featured brunette came in, accompanied by a doughy college kid. Checking her out in the magical spectrum, I saw that she was indeed a vampire; she had the dead gray aura with the two burning embers of vampirism about her heart and head. The college kid was just a clueless sort whose aura suggested that he was horny and hoping to get lucky later on. He’d get something, all right, but it wasn’t lucky.
She wasn’t all gothed out, the way people these days are trained to expect from vampires in fiction. She was wearing a pair of jeans with holes in the knees and a very tight American Eagle T-shirt underneath a thin white coat that was more for fashion than warmth. She was wearing Vans, for crying out loud. She was trying very hard to blend in and seem human.
I couldn’t point her out to Granuaile or even say, “Psst! Bloodsucker!” because the vampire would overhear. I had my own blending in to do.
Well spotted, Oberon. Negative eleven sausages now.
“Atticus?” Granuaile frowned. “What’s wrong?”
I smiled at her. “Just remembered something,” I said. “I don’t suppose you have a pen or anything like that in your purse? I need to write it down before I forget.” This was a transparent excuse for anyone who knew anything about Druids, because we don’t forget. But I was counting on the vampire not knowing what I was.
“Oh,” Granuaile said. “Sure.” She rooted around in her bag and found a receipt that I could use for paper. I flipped it over and wrote on the back: Don’t say anything about this out loud. She will hear. There is a vampire here. Don’t worry; just thinking through the implications. Will talk about it when we leave.
“Thanks,” I said, pushing the note to her. She read it, nodded, and tucked it into her purse.
The vampire and her date/snack were seated two tables away to our left. She shouldn’t be here, according to Leif’s behavior in the past; he exterminated all other vampires in his territory as a matter of course. Was she someone allied with Leif in the new vampire politics, or was she an enemy? I could unbind her right now and the college boy would have to watch his date melt in front of him, but I thought perhaps I should wait, especially if she turned out to be someone on Leif’s side. I rather doubted, however, that Leif was operating with anyone. It was far more likely that she was one of many trying to take Leif’s territory for her own. And I suspected she wasn’t here by accident.
Our food arrived, and I grinned mischievously at Granuaile as her plate was settled reverently before her. She gave it right back as mine appeared before me.
“Okay, one thing at a time, right?” she said.
“Right.”
“Age before beauty. Start with that stir-fry thing right there.” She pointed to some suspicious cauliflower-looking bits mixed in with vegetables and fried brown rice.
“All right,” I said, taking a generous forkful. Granuaile watched me put it in my mouth and chew, horrified fascination writ large upon her face.
The cauliflower bits weren’t cauliflower. They were mushy, a bit gelatinous. But they had a nice, spicy flavor, if a bit pedestrian. Taste-wise it wasn’t terribly unique, just an unusual texture.
Granuaile waited until I’d swallowed and then she said, “Congratulations. That was a bheja fry—goat brains.”
“Brains? You made me eat brains like a zombie? Ugh!”
“Braaaaaaains,” she moaned, eyes rolling up in her head.
“I bet you zombies would like them even more with these spices. All right, take that fried thing there, dip it in the cocktail sauce, and chow down.”
Granuaile eyed it cautiously, as if it might suddenly decide to move. It looked like a large chicken nugget, but it wasn’t. “What’s under all the batter?” she asked.
“You find out after you eat it. Those are the rules.”
She did as instructed, taking a tiny bite at first and quirking an eyebrow at me by way of inquiry.
“Eat the whole thing,” I said.
She sighed and chomped down the rest of it. “That wasn’t so bad,” she said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “What was it?”
“That was a Rocky Mountain oyster, also known as a Montana tendergroin.”
“No. I just ate a bull’s balls?”
“Only one, but yes, you just tore up a tasty testicle. Congratulations!”
Disgust suffused her expression for a moment, but it was quickly replaced by narrowed eyes and a cold promise of grief. She gripped the tablecloth and squeezed it, pretendi
ng, perhaps, it was my newly healed neck. “You will never tell anyone about this.”
“No,” I said. I fully intended to write it down, however. To keep her from extracting a promise not to record this in any way, I waved at my plate and said, “What shall I try next?” We worked our way through the culinary dares, and I kept half an ear open for what was going on at the vampire’s table. The brunette didn’t order anything, just ice water with lemon, and that sat on her table and sweated.
At one point, she turned her head and gave me a good stare. Leif had always told me my blood tasted different from that of modern men. I’m sure it smelled different too. The vampire didn’t know what I was, precisely, but she knew my blood was as exotic to her as sloth steak was to me. Chances were she’d be stalking me after she disposed of her college boy—if she hadn’t stalked me in here to begin with.
I paid for dinner, got Oberon’s yak liver to go, and said, “Let’s talk about that other thing when we get to Granny’s.” Granuaile nodded her understanding. We collected Oberon outside and I kept his camouflage on.
I’ll need you to stay hidden while we’re at Granny’s Closet too. Keep your nose open for any more vampires and let me know.
Yeah, I’ll get you a steak and bring it out, I said as we got in the car.
I answered him out loud to see what reaction it got. “She made it through all five courses, buddy. Sorry. You’re back up to negative sixteen sausages.”
“Wait,” Granuaile said. “Oberon bet against me? Thanks a lot, Oberon.”
We pulled into the parking lot of Granny’s Closet and searched for a suitable place for Oberon to hang out. The lot stretched to the north of the restaurant, and we left Oberon on the north side. The entrance faced the west.
Once you stepped through the door, the dining area was to your left and the bar to your right, with the kitchen sandwiched in between. We ducked to the right and entered a room of dark wood and red filtered light. The bar was on the west wall, and half booths lined the remaining three—the kind where the seats on the walls are padded and two chairs rest on the other side of the table. The center of the floor was dotted with wee tables big enough to put down your drink and maybe a plate of wings, no more.
We took a table on the east wall and sat facing the room. A primped and pushed-up waitress took our orders over to the bar, where a rakishly handsome lad was mixing drinks. Granuaile eyed him with professional interest. And perhaps … something more. Her eyes flicked toward me and she caught me looking at her—she was extremely good at that—and then she looked down, a flush of embarrassment blooming up her neck.
I understood that this time she felt that she was the one who’d been caught. I joined her with a sympathy blush. Not so long ago, Granuaile and I had casually flirted with each other—well, I confess that perhaps it was not so casual on my part. When she was just a bartender and I was just a customer, both of us were fair game to be pursued. Now our relationship had shifted, necessarily, and I, for one, was having a bit of trouble with it.
The trouble was, I couldn’t stop staring at her. Granuaile wasn’t one of those exotic siren types of redheads, like a Jessica Rabbit or something; she was naturally beautiful, often wearing nothing but some mascara around her eyes and the gloss on her lips. I noticed how the soft glow of red lights shimmered on them; they were the sort of lips you couldn’t not think about kissing. But now that she was my apprentice, every such thought caused a guilty twitch in my neck, as if someone had dropped a sleek, stinky ferret there. Guilt ferrets are bastards.
I didn’t know if Granuaile was having the same kind of trouble I was. Still, I knew enough to recognize the tension between us, and it would be unwise to let it continue. Problem was, I didn’t know how to address it gracefully. I was fairly certain it couldn’t be done.
“Um, look, Granuaile …” I faltered, unsure of how to continue.
“Look at what?”
“Not that kind of look. Bollocks. Well, forgive me for saying something epically awkward, but I think it needs to be said. I don’t want you to think that becoming a Druid involves a vow of celibacy or anything. Celibacy is a terrible idea, adhered to by people who hate themselves and want everyone else to do the same. You should do what you want to do, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her tone was light but her expression carried a warning. I ignored it.
“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. And who I mean.” I nodded my head toward the handsome bartender she’d been checking out.
Granuaile kept her eyes on me and they narrowed dangerously. “Are you giving me permission to have sex?” Her voice had a definite edge to it now. Rather sharp, actually: the kind of edge that saws effortlessly through aluminum cans, with a cheesy announcer saying, “Now how much would you pay for a knife like that?”
“No, I’m telling you that you don’t need my permission.”
“I should hope not!”
“Good, we’re agreed.” I hoped that would convince her to drop it, but no such luck. Her eyes flared at me.
“What? No, I don’t think so. What brought this on? Do you think I’m some sort of sex-starved loser?”
“Well, you are American.”
“What!”
Great festering tapir tits, that was a stupid thing to say. This was not going well, but there was nothing to do now but plunge deeper and hope I’d be able to swim out again. “I mean you have all these modern American hang-ups about the subject. You’re getting all defensive about something that should be perfectly natural and relaxing.”
“That is a cheap rhetorical device. By accusing me of being defensive, I cannot respond without proving your point, however unrelated it might be to the original topic. And the original topic under discussion here is your presumption that you have anything to say at all about my sex life.”
“See, I told you this would be epically awkward. I was simply trying to explain that I’m not the sin police, and if you want to make a move on Mr. Drinky McDrinkypants over there, you can go right ahead.”
Granuaile’s lips drew into a tight, furious line. “If you were anyone else, I would slap you so hard you’d have two cheeks on one side of your face.”
“Well, then, I sincerely apologize and commend your restraint. But you’ll need to explain what I’m doing wrong here. I’m honestly not trying to insult you. I’ve never been in a relationship like this before, and I don’t know how to handle it.”
“What kind of relationship do you think we have?”
“This kind. Don’t tell me you haven’t felt the weirdness here. We used to flirt, Granuaile, and now we can’t, because you’re my apprentice.”
“You just got done telling me you’re not the sin police and celibacy is for people who hate themselves, and now you’re saying we can’t flirt?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you don’t see a contradiction there?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. The student-teacher relationship is sacred. This is true across cultures and throughout history.”
Granuaile scoffed. “You can’t be serious. People have messed around with their teachers forever, and vice versa.”
“Yes, but at the sacrifice of the relationship. Teaching and learning cannot continue once you cross that line. I would feel pressured to go easy on you to save your feelings. Or I’d lower my standards to ensure your success. You’d wind up being a much less powerful Druid, and I don’t think either of us is the type to settle for mediocrity. So we cannot even get close to that line.”
She looked away and down at her drink, carefully mastering
her expression to be noncommittal. Perhaps she gave the barest nod of agreement. Whether she did or not, she wasn’t happy. That meant we were in trouble; she was having the same difficulty I was, but until then I hadn’t seen much sign of it from her. My neck twitched, and Granuaile’s might have as well. Guilt ferrets are bastards.
Is it Leif?
I lifted my eyes to the bar’s entrance and saw Leif walk through, his hands thrust in his pockets as he casually scanned the seats for us. I held up a hand to attract his attention. He spotted me and tilted his chin upward to indicate he’d seen us. He didn’t move in our direction, though. Instead, he carefully scanned the rest of the room, seeking out traps or escape routes or perhaps other people. It awakened my own paranoia, and I began to look around as well.
Oberon, do you still smell dead people?
According to what I saw in the magical spectrum, everyone in the bar was human except for Leif. Once we were both satisfied, he approached us.
Granuaile had never met Leif—he was nocturnal, after all, and she tended to stay in her condo at night—so she had no way of knowing if he looked the same or not. But as he grew closer, I had to school my features not to reveal any of the horror I felt. Leif hadn’t recovered fully after all.
Chapter 17
I could still recognize him easily—even from a distance in dim light—but up close his complexion had the consistency of a Play-Doh sculpture, lumpy and clumsily shaped with chubby fingers. His hair, once full and shining with undead lustre, lay lank and greasy against his head. Patches were missing; I’d salvaged only a few hairs in Asgard, so it was remarkable that it had even grown back in this much, but the effect was to make him look diseased.
“I know I have looked better, Atticus,” he said, extending his hand to shake, “but I have also looked much worse. And I am still healing, thanks to you.” I wasn’t sure he should be thanking me. Though I’d done my best to bind his head back together after Thor pulverized it into chunks of bone and brain, one could not look at him now without feeling seriously disturbed. The symmetry was gone. The shadows were wrong. One eye sat higher than the other—though it was a miracle he had eyes at all.