"No main course?" Crest asked.
"Not today."
A silence reined. Crest seemed content to gaze at me while I had no idea what to do with myself.
"You look stunning," he said finally. "So different."
"It's an illusion," I told him. "I'm still me."
"I know."
He smiled. By the way he looked at me, I knew he was wondering what I would be like in bed. Why wasn't I wondering the same thing about him? He did cut a nice figure in the dark suit. A few women overtly glanced at him.
I caught a man looking at me from a table nearby. I suppose I should've been flattered.
"So how's work?" I finally said to say something.
"I'm thinking of leaving the practice," he said.
"Oh?"
"I'd like to spend more time studying Lyc-V," he said. "I think it's fascinating, particularly how the very structure of bones changes under the influence of magic. To develop that ability further would mean incredible advances for reconstructive surgery. No invasive procedures, no implants, no recovery, just the elimination of imperfections through will."
I smiled at him. Perhaps one day I'd introduce him to Saiman.
The waiter arrived with the wine menu. Crest ordered and then rattled on about the fascinating nature of Lyc-V, going into more technical detail than my limited comprehension could handle. I dutifully watched him, wondering why Olathe kidnapped the women. Something about it just didn't add up.
Crest fell silent and I blinked, turning off the autopilot.
"You're not listening, are you?"
No. "No, please go ahead."
"Do I bore you?"
"A little."
"I'm sorry," he said.
I shrugged. "Please don't be. You're being yourself and I'm being myself. For you shapechangers are a new and interesting frontier. For me, they are a part of my work. They are violent, often cruel, paranoid, and extremely territorial. When I see one, I see a possible adversary. You get excited because they can change their bone structure, while I get pissed off because their jaws don't fit together well in mid-form and they drip spit on the floor. And they smell awful when they're wet."
Crest looked at me.
"Besides, I lack the medical expertise to understand most of what you've said during the last five minutes. I hate feeling like a layman. It's too much for my fragile ego."
He reached over and touched my hand. His skin was warm and dry and for some unknown reason his touch comforted me.
"I'm shutting up," he promised solemnly.
"You don't have to," I said. "Let's talk about something else, though. Books, music, something not related to work."
"Yours or mine?"
"Both."
The world skipped a beat as the magic crashed. The conversation at the tables died for a moment and resumed as if nothing happened. Our dinner arrived. My salad consisted of leaves of lettuce, tastefully arranged to frame the thin slivers of orange, and a scattering of other greenery. I poked at the lettuce with a fork. For some reason I wasn't hungry.
"How's your salad?" he asked.
I speared a slice of orange with my fork and ate it. "Good."
He smiled, pleasure evident on his face, and I recalled the advice given to me by someone a long time ago. If a man takes you to a restaurant of his choosing, don't compliment him. Rave about the quality of the food and he'll be thrilled, because he took you merc. It wasn't in me to rave.
We spoke for a few minutes about nothing at all, but the conversation kept dying. Whatever we had at Las Colimas had fled and we couldn't recapture it. I poked at my salad, looked up, and saw Crest glancing past my shoulder. "Is there a problem?"
"That guy keeps staring at you," Crest said. "It's going beyond polite. I think I might go over and ask what his problem is."
I turned and saw a familiar figure two tables down. Leaning against the chair, half-turned so he could have a better view of our table, sat Curran.
Why me?
A stunning Asian woman wearing a tiny black dress occupied the other chair at his table. The woman appeared nervous, her slender fingers twisting the corner of the napkin. She gave me a startled glance, like a gazelle at a waterhole, and turned away quickly. Curran appeared unconcerned.
Our gazes met and Curran grinned.
"I don't think talking to him is a good idea," I said.
"An old boyfriend?" Crest said.
"Lord, no. We've met professionally."
I motioned to the waiter and he glided over. "Yes, ma'am?"
I nodded toward Curran. "See that man over there with very short hair? Next to a beautiful woman?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Would you please deliver a saucer of milk to him with my compliments?"
The waiter didn't even blink, a testament to Fernando's excellent service. "Yes, ma'am."
Crest looked at me, obviously itching to ask for an explanation.
The waiter delivered the milk, murmuring to Curran. Curran's smile turned predatory. He took the saucer and raised it in a kind of salute. His eyes flashed gold. The gleam flared and vanished so quickly that if I hadn't been looking straight at him, I would've missed it. He brought the saucer to his mouth and drank from the edge.
"He looks out of place in jeans," Crest said.
"Trust me, he doesn't care. And nobody working at Fernando's is insane enough to bring it up." Actually, Fernando's didn't seem like Curran's kind of restaurant. I had pegged him for a steak-and-shrimp or Chinese place kind of guy.
"I see." Crest was trying to give Curran an intimidating stare. If he kept it up, Curran might collapse laughing. Suddenly I was angry.
Crest's gaze lingered on Curran's date. Something new reflected in his eyes, interest, admiration? Attraction, maybe? Curran winked at him.
Crest folded his napkin and put it on the table. At least half of his chicken breast remained on his plate. "I think we should go," he said.
I pushed away my mostly intact salad. "Good idea."
A waiter materialized by our table. Crest paid cash and we walked out into the night. Outside Crest turned to the left.
"My car is that way," I said, nodding to the right.
He shook his head. "I've got a surprise planned. Since we cut our dinner short, we might be early. Do you mind walking?"
"Yes, actually." Not in these heels and not with a red-hot needle in my hip. "Would you mind driving me?"
"It would be my privilege."
As we walked to his car, I felt someone watching me. I paused to adjust the strap on my shoe and made him across the street, leaning against the building. The leather jacket and spiky hair was unmistakable. Bono. Ghastek was keeping an eye on me, but this time instead of a vampire he sent his journeyman. Nice choice. Bono still had a grudge against me for our little chat at Andriano's. Had Ghastek found out that I'd squeezed the journeyman who had clued me in on Ghastek's unmarked vampires? Or maybe I was thinking about it all wrong.
Bono shifted slightly to keep me in his view. Why keep surveillance now, when Olathe was dead? Unless Bono had served Olathe. It made sense. If she had wished to take over Nataraja's operation, she would've tried to recruit young journeymen, and with her looks and power, luring them to her side wouldn't have been that hard. Was Bono here for revenge? Or was there another player to this drama and now Bono took orders from him?
It wasn't over. My instincts told me that it was too easy, too convenient, and now I had the confirmation from Bono. What did he know that I didn't? I thought about crossing the street and beating it out of Bono, pummeling him into pulp until he told me every last detail he knew. I could ram his head against the bricks and take him deeper into the dark of the alley. Or even better, smash him against the wall and take him to the car. In this neighborhood nobody would pay attention to a woman in an evening dress and her handsome companion that had a touch too much to drink and had to be supported by her. I could stuff him into the car and drive him someplace secluded.
"Kate
?"
Crest's pleasant face came into view. Bloody hell.
"Which one is your car?"
"That one."
I smiled at him, or at least I tried. Casting one last look after Bono, I let Crest open the door of his vehicle for me and forced myself to sit down. Later, Bono. I can always find you.
CREST'S RIDE WAS EXPENSIVE, METALLIC GRAY, AND bullet shaped. He held the door open for me and I arranged myself on the leather passenger seat. He got in and we took off. The inside of the car was spotless. No used tissues wadded and stuffed into the cup holder. No old bills or worn receipts littering the floor. No grime on the panels. It looked immaculate, almost sterile.
"Tell me, do you own a single pair of worn jeans?" I asked. "Just one pair so old that it has permanent dirt in it?"
"No," he said. "Does it make me a bad person?"
"No," I said. "You do realize that most of my jeans have dirt embedded in them?"
"Yes," he said, his eyes laughing. "But then I'm not interested in your jeans, only what's in them."
Not tonight. "Okay, just as long as we're clear."
The city scrolled by us, its streets channeling an occasional gasoline-burning car feeding on the death throes of technology. I counted as many horsemen as I did cars. Fifteen years ago the cars had dominated the streets.
"So who was that man?" Crest said.
"That was the Beast Lord."
Crest glanced at me. "The Beast Lord?"
"Yes. The top dog." Or cat.
"And that woman was one of his lovers?"
"Probably."
A snow-white Buick cut us off, squeezing into the lane and screeching to a halt before the traffic light. Crest rolled his eyes. The traffic light flickered, flaring with blinding intensity and dying to a weak glow.
"Residual magic?" Crest wondered.
"Or faulty wiring." The good doctor was picking up the magic jargon. I wondered where he'd learned about the residual magic effects.
"It makes sense." Crest parked next to a large building. "We're here."
A valet opened my door. I stepped out onto the pavement. Crest's car was in distinguished company. All around us Volvos, Cadillacs, and Lincolns spewed well-dressed people onto the sidewalk: women, smiling so wide, their lips threatened to snap and men, inflated with their own importance. The couples proceeded to make their way up to the tall building before us.
The valet got into the car and drove off, leaving us standing in full view. People looked at me. They looked at Crest, too.
"Do you remember the Fox Theater?" Crest said, offering me his elbow. Opening doors was one thing. Hanging on his elbow was another. I ignored it, walking to the door with my hands loosely at my sides.
"Yes. It was demolished."
"They took the stones from it and built this place. Great, isn't it?"
"So instead of building a new, fresh, sterile building, they dragged all of the agony, heartbreak, and suffering that permeated the stones of the old place into the new one. Brilliant."
He gave me an incredulous look. "What are you talking about?"
"Artists emanate a great deal. They agonize over their looks, over their age, over the competition. A very minute detail can become a matter of great gravity. The building in which they perform soaks in their failures, their jealousies, their disappointments like a sponge and holds all that misery in. That's why empaths don't go to anything above the level of spring fair performances. The atmosphere overwhelms them. It was incredibly stupid to transfer the weight of so many years to the new place."
"Sometimes I don't understand you," he said. "How can you be so damn pragmatic?"
I wondered what nerve I struck. Mister Smooth had suddenly turned confrontational.
"After all, there are other emotions." His tone was irate. "Triumph, exaltation at the magnificent performance, joy."
"That's true."
We stepped into the dim lobby, lit with torches despite the presence of electric bulbs. People around us moved in a steady stream toward the double doors at the far wall. We went with the flow, passing through the doors and into the large concert hall, filled with rows of red seats.
People looked at us. Crest looked pleased. We were the center of attention, tall, dapper Crest and his exotic date in a distinctive dress with a scar snaking its way down her shoulder. He didn't see how much the crowds bothered me, he didn't notice that I was beginning to limp. If I told him, it would only make matters worse. I kept walking and smiling, and concentrated on not falling.
We sat smack in the middle and I let out a tiny breath of relief. Sitting was a lot easier than standing.
"So who are we waiting for?" I asked.
"Aivisha," Crest said with gravity.
I had no idea who Aivisha was.
"It's the last performance of the season," he continued. "It's getting too warm. I didn't think she would perform this late, but the management assured me that she will have no difficulties. She can use the residual magic."
I leaned back in my seat and waited quietly. Around us people settled into their seats. An old woman, dressed in an impeccably white gown and escorted by a distinguished older gentleman, stopped by us. Crest jumped to his feet. Oh dear God, I would have to get up. I rose and smiled and waited politely until we completed the introductions. The woman and Crest chattered for a few minutes while the escort and I quietly shared each other's misery. Finally she moved on.
"Madam Emerson," Crest told me and patted my hand. "Probably the last true Southern socialite. You did very well. I think she likes you."
I opened my mouth and clamped it shut. I hadn't done anything but stand still and smile. Like a well-behaved child or a disciplined dog. Had he expected me to hump her leg?
A bell rang, commanding quiet from the crowd. A hush claimed the concert hall and slowly the velvet curtain parted to reveal a short woman. She was dark-skinned and heavy, with glossy coils of raven black hair styled high on top of her head. A long gown of silvery fabric cascaded in folds and plaits off her shoulders, shimmering, as if it was woven of sun-lit water.
Aivisha looked at the audience, her dark eyes bottomless, and took a tiny step forward, the cascade of silver moving all around her. She opened her mouth and let her voice pour forth.
Her voice was incredible. Startling in its clarity and beauty, it rose, gaining strength, building on itself, and power streamed from her, permeating the concert hall and the astonished crowd. I forgot about Crest, about Olathe, about my work, and listened, lost in the harmony of the enchanting voice.
Aivisha raised her hands. Thin slivers of ice grew from her fingers, spiraling, twisting, in perfect accord with her song. Like impossibly complex crystal lace, the ice stretched across the stage to climb up the side columns, blossoming into bundles of needle-thin feathers. It hugged the folds of Aivisha's gown, a dutiful pet, happy to please, and I couldn't tell where the silver of the fabric began and the crystal purity of ice ended.
Aivisha sang and sang, and ice danced for her, obeying her every whim. She commanded us, and mesmerized, we held our breath until her voice climbed to an overpowering crescendo. A burst of blue light pulsed from her, saturating the ice in an instant. The crystal lace burst, evaporating into the air. The curtain fell, hiding Aivisha from the audience. For a moment we sat stunned. And then the concert hall erupted in applause.
Crest squeezed my hand and I squeezed back.
Forty-five minutes later we pulled into the parking lot before my apartment building.
"Can I walk you to the door?" Crest asked.
"Not tonight," I murmured. "I'm sorry. I just wouldn't be good company."
"Are you sure?" Crest asked, hope dying in his eyes. I felt bad, but I couldn't do it. Something told me I should just stop this right here.
"Yes," I said. "Thank you for the dinner and company."
"I was hoping the evening wouldn't end this soon," he said.
I touched his hand with my fingertips. "I'm sorry. Perhaps some other time."<
br />
"Oh, well," he said. "There is always tomorrow night."
I opened the door and let myself out of his car. He lingered for a moment and then sped off. Too late I realized that he had expected a good night kiss.
MY HIP HURT MORE AND MORE AND BY THE TIME I crossed the parking lot, the ache had graduated to a full pain, spiced with sharp spasms.
"Just great." I slipped off my shoes. Barefoot, with heels in hand, I headed toward the door.
My foot found an imperfection in the pavement. I slid, and almost landed on my ass. Pain bit my leg. I bent forward, waiting for it to pass and growling wordless curses under my breath.
"Do you need me to carry you?" a voice whispered into my ear. "Again?"
I spun and hammered an uppercut into the speaker's midsection. My fist met a wall of solid muscle.
"Good punch," Curran said. "For a human."
Yeah yeah. I heard you exhale when I hit you. You felt it. "What do you want?"
"Where is your pretty date?"
"Where is yours?"
I started toward the building again. The only way to get away from him was to climb up the stairs and shut the ward in his face.
"Home," he said. "Waiting for me."
"Well, do me a fucking favor and go see her."
I reached the stairs and sat down. My leg demanded a break.
"Hurts?"
"No, I like sitting on filthy steps in an expensive evening dress."
"You're a bit surly tonight," he observed. "Not getting laid will do that."
I looked at the night sky, at the tiny dots of stars. "I'm tired, my leg hurts, and there's shit that needs answers and I can't find any."
"Like what?"
I sighed. "One, I don't know who killed Greg and why. Two, we found no evidence of the necro-tainted animals that killed your people. Three, Greg's file mentioned women. Why did Olathe take them and what did she do with them?"
He bent low toward me. "It's over," he said. "And you've got a bad case of spotlight deprivation."
"A bad case of what?"
"You're a no-name merc and all of a sudden everyone wants to talk to you. The power brokers of the city know your phone number. Makes you feel important. And now the dance is done. I sympathize." His voice dripped derision. "But it's over."
Kate Daniels Book 1 - Magic Bites Page 18