by Jason Rose
“This is really nice,” I exclaim, referencing the wine, while indirectly meaning more than that.
“It is.” Sinn beams and I feel my airways restrict. She is so beautiful when she smiles, which sadly is rare. So beautiful, that I’m feeling insecure, like she is out of my league. Like I’m out of my mind. What are we doing here? She is a vampire, for god sakes—what future could we have? Snap out of it, Colt. Since when did I turn into one of those people that start planning their entire future on a first real date? Get it together. It’s just dinner.
My self-sabotage is interrupted as the waiter approaches our table carrying an oval serving tray laden with plates. He places the dark-colored oval tray on a foldout wooden stand next to the table and then transfers the house special, a whole roast suckling pig, from the tray to the center of the table. According to the waiter, the suckling pig is salted, seasoned with fortified wine and herbs, left overnight to absorb the flavors, and then slow roasted for hours in a wood fire oven. I can just make out the scent of aged oak waffling amongst the sage and roasted pork smells. The waiter insisted that I order the whole suckling pig—wouldn’t take no for an answer. He said the pig was divine, and if I died without tasting it, my life would not have been worth living. The recommendation was so strong, and its unprompted aggressiveness caught me by such surprise that I felt obligated to comply, even though I didn’t really want the pig. Alongside the pig, the waiter sets a plate of rice and baby squid tossed in a sauce made from the squid’s ink—another house special, another dish essentially forced on me. This is way more food than I imagined. There is no way I can eat all of this. I can’t believe how big the pig is.
The waiter frowns at me, again, just like he did when I ordered it, as he sets down in front of Sinn a porcelain dish covered by a rounded dome, stainless-steel cover with an ornate finial. With a look of utter disdain, he lifts the plate cover by the finial, exposing the blown sugar, isomalt sphere beneath. The hand-blown sphere is partially filled with vanilla custard and has been air-brushed with edible sugar paint so it looks just like a real peach harvested fresh from a garden. It sparkles in the candlelight.
The waiter tilts his head to the side, addressing Sinn. “Senora,” and then retreats from the table without so much as an enjoy your meal. I’ve never understood why it is that the nicer the restaurant is, the worse the attitude of its serving staff. It's not the service itself that sucks at fancy restaurants, because the technical service at fancy restaurants tends to be better. It’s the arrogance of the servers that sucks. Maybe it’s that they must spend their entire working day surrounded by rich pricks. I can see how that might rub some people the wrong way. Rich people turn regular people into selfish assholes. Just look at congressmen; most of those poor saps started off as regular citizens wanting to make a difference. But after a term or two of self-enrichment, they become just another rich, self-important scumbag.
Sinn stares at her blown sugar peach, a dash of wonderment and a sprinkle of hesitancy in her eyes. “Is this sugar? How in the world did they do this? This is amazing. I’m afraid to touch it. I don’t want to break it.”
I can’t control myself; I’m grinning from ear to ear like an idiot. The whole reason I picked this restaurant was because of this dessert. I saw it on one of those TV millionaire travel shows and I just knew that Sinn would love it. They blow the sugar into a sphere just like it was hot glass and then they airbrush it with edible paint. Seeing the joy on her face makes up for all the bullshit I ‘ve had to go through the last few months. “Take your spoon and tap the top of the peach.”
Sinn hesitates.
“Just trust me.”
Sinn reaches over and grasps her antique silver spoon; she looks over at me uncertainly. I nod, encouraging her to continue. She inhales, seemingly sucking all of the sounds out of the room, and then lightly taps the top of the peach sphere with the bottom of the spoon, delicately cracking it like an eggshell. A cloud of orange smoke from inside the sphere escapes through the cracked sugar dome and rises in the air, like the cloud from a mini A-bomb.
Sinn giggles with delight like a schoolgirl at a Justin Bieber concert. “Colt, this is . . . this . . . thank you.”
I flash her my brightest smile. “I’m glad you like it.” A genuine feeling of warmth engulfs me as I pick at my rice and baby squid. The dish is surprisingly delicious. Intimidating, it’s whole baby squids, head on and all, but delicious. The pig is also good, if not a little too salty for my taste. I’m certainly not going to tell the waiter that, though, and I’m not sending it back; I’d probably get knifed with a corkscrew. The wait staff here is beyond intimidating. They probably moonlight as enforcers for the Spanish mob.
Sinn and I sail through dinner on a cloud of contentment, occasionally making eye contact and sharing a smile, neither of us really talking that much—it’s nice. A comfortable silence, the kind that only exists between two people who actually have a lot to say to one another but aren’t in a rush to say it.
Once Sinn’s dessert is devoured and I’ve had my fill of squid, rice, and pig, I signal the waiter for the check. Three-quarters of a whole roast suckling pig is still resting on the table. I momentarily consider asking the waiter for a doggie bag, knowing full well this isn’t the type of restaurant that packages food to go, and knowing full well that my request will likely cause the waiter to lose his shit. And then common-sense sets in and I decide not to ask for a box. My date isn’t over, at least I hope it isn’t, and nothing says romance quite like having to carry a whole pig around with you. A doggie bag is not in the cards.
“Sinn, would you like to take a walk around the city?”
“That would be nice.”
After expensing the bill to the firm’s credit card, Sinn and I rise from our seats and step out into the warm Spanish evening. You can taste the salty Mediterranean Sea in the air. We walk with purpose through the historic city, but without destination. As we pass a particularly impressive cathedral, Sinn breaks the silence, “Colt, thank you for bringing me here. I love Barcelona. It’s so beautiful here, and the dessert was amazing . . .”
I sense a but is coming and I don’t want the moment to end. I turn and step in front of Sinn, interrupting her. Our faces are mere inches apart. Her beautiful green eyes are staring up into mine. I lean in for a kiss. She leans up towards me, rising onto her tippy toes to close the distance between our lips, and then, at the last possible moment before our lips touch, she uses her vampire speed and agility to move out of the way, causing me to completely whiff, and nearly fall face first onto the cobblestone street.
Sinn takes another step forward and continues walking, acting as if nothing just happened, as if she didn’t just reject me, crumbling my pride into a million pieces. “Colt . . . shouldn’t we be focused on court tomorrow? Are you ready? What can I do to help?”
I pause for a second to gather my dignity and then turn and quicken my pace to catch up so we’re again walking side by side. I consider challenging her, demanding that she tell me what I did wrong? Am I misreading her signals? Maybe she doesn’t like me? Maybe it’s all in my head. Instead, I bury it. If she wants to act as if nothing happened, so be it.
“I am focused.” The statement comes out more defensive than I intend. I don’t feel bad about it, though. The truth is I am angry.
“There is nothing you need to do to prepare? There’s nothing I can do to help?” she asks, a thread of desperation clinging to the empty questions as if giving her an assignment would fill in the chasm that’s opened between us.
“No. Wilson’s tracking down Whiley MacGee, at least his address. He’ll text if he finds something. He’s also asking a friend at Oakland PD to run the plates from the van our morning guests were driving.”
“The three wolves who turned down bagles? With everything else that happened today, I almost forgot about them.”
“Me too. I can’t even believe that was this morning. Feels like it was a week ago. My day started in Oakland and f
rom there I went to Canada, twice, the prison in upstate Massachusettes, Boston, Pittsfield, San Francisco, back to Oakland, and now we’re in Barcelona. I’ve earned my frequent portal miles today. I wonder if I can trade them in for a coffee mug or a neck pillow?”
Sinn doesn’t acknowledge my attempt at levity. “Have you told Adrian about them?”
“Who? The three jokers from this morning?”
“The big guy with the red beard and his henchmen. That guy stands out in a crowd. Adrian might know who he is.”
“Red, no. I will tomorrow.” I didn’t tell Adrian this morning because I hadn’t decided if I wanted to take the case or not. I meant to tell him this afternoon, then I got sidetracked with the Cinnamon thing.
“Do you have a plan for tomorrow?”
“Yes, I have a plan.”
“Are you going to clue me in? I am your partner.” The way she says partner is almost robotic, no emotion to it, no hint that we’re more than just partners, no hint she just dogged me when I tried to kiss her. I almost snap and say partners huh; instead, I pick up the pace, we’re almost walk jogging now. Sinn matches me stride for stride along the Spanish cobblestone streets. Not exactly the ideal place to jog, one wrong foot placement and you’ve got a sprained ankle. I know I’m acting childish, and I know I will not tire her out; she’s a vampire, she can crush me in a foot race. Still, the faster pace is causing me to breathe harder and it’s helping clear my head. It’s funny how a little exercise always makes things better—that and chicken noodle soup from the can, minus the noodles. The texture of the noodles is disgusting, soft, limp, made for people without teeth. There’s something about the taste of soup from a can, though; maybe it’s the aluminum seasoning that really brings me back to my childhood. Back to my mother. Back to when life was simpler.
After about half a mile of silence, Sinn stops walking. “Colt, stop. What is the plan?”
After walking another two steps, I stop and turn back towards her. As hurt and angry as I am, seeing her stare up at me with a look of pain plastered across her face—she’s obviously upset—is making me feel like an ass. Why does my life have to be so complicated? Does she still blame me for her father’s death? Is it something else? Why can’t boy just meet girl, have sex, lots of athletic sex, and then live happily ever after? Is that so much to ask for?
“The plan is simple; we’re going to wait and react. It’s not like we have a lot of options. We’re flying blind. Tomorrow, the opposing council is going to formally announce the charges and present their case against Eirik . . . the Butcher.” I can’t believe I am representing a guy who called himself the Butcher. Where did my life go off the rails? “We’ll get to hear their witnesses, cross-examine them, see their evidence, and then we will ask for a continuance so we can try and put a defense together. Obviously, Eirik can’t invoke Ordeal by Combat—the guy is a vegetable. He’s going to have to plead not guilty, and we’re going to have to win this the old-fashioned way, with evidence and argument.”
Sinn starts walking again; this time she’s taking the lead and setting a more leisurely pace. She’s obviously thinking about my response. I fall in lockstep beside her and wait for her to speak. After about a block, she asks, “Do you still believe he’s going to be charged with murder?”
“I don’t know. Adrian seems to think so.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Your fucked up legal system only recognizes the killing of Concordat citizens as a crime, and as far as I can tell, Adrian’s daughter was the only Concordat citizen to die at the hotel. So, unless I’m missing something, and I probably am, Eirik’s off the hook for the slaughter of everyone else. While the whole thing is tragic and utterly messed up, a murder charge for killing his granddaughter kind of makes sense.”
“You still don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not. I don’t see how they can prove murder. Nobody saw him kill his granddaughter. There are no eyewitnesses, at least that we know of. While the hotel cameras caught some of the murders, Adrian’s daughter's murder happened outside the video frame. For all we know someone else killed her with the ax, causing Eirik to go on a retaliatory rampage and murder everyone within arm’s reach. Everyone is just assuming he killed her. Without a witness, I don’t see how this works for them. Throw in the fact that I’m betting once the lab results come back, and your mage friend evaluates Eirik, were going to be able to prove that he was drugged or magically possessed or spelled or . . . I don’t know the fucking word, whatever it is, his capacity for rational thought was diminished and he was not in control of himself. Murder is defined as the killing of another Magna-Concordat citizen, without justification, with malice aforethought. Malice aforethought essentially means premeditation or intent. Unless Adrian is a huge liar, Eirik loved his granddaughter and would never have hurt her. If that’s true, I don’t see how the prosecutor can show Eirik premeditated or intended to kill her. Nothing about the crime, or the crime scene, screams premeditation. It screams passion and loss of control.”
“If you don’t think they can prove murder, what’s bothering you?” As soon as she says it, she flinches. She must realize her poor choice of verbiage has just given me an opening to pick at what’s really bothering me, which is the fact she just blew me off when I tried to kiss her. I stare at her for a moment, letting her know with silence that I’m aware of the opening she’s given me, likely subconsciously, and that I will not take the bait.
“All I know is the prosecutor, whoever it is, doesn’t have to show his cards until tomorrow. I fully expect whoever it is to have an ace up their sleeve.”
“The prosecutor’s a she and her name is Makki.”
“When did you find that out? And why’d you wait until now to tell me? Don’t you think that’s information I need to know?”
The look on Sinn’s face changes from concerned to pissed-off faster than a housewife turns into a hoe on date night. “I found out right before dinner!” she yells. “I tried to tell you at the restaurant, but you shut me down. And anyway, what difference does it make? Does the fact you know her name, or that she’s a wendigo, or that she’s large, loud, and dangerous change any of your plans for tomorrow?”
I swallow my tongue; she’s right, it doesn’t matter. I’m just angry and looking for something to fight about. “Sorry, you’re right, that was unfair of me.”
Sinn gives me the side-eye and quickens our walking pace by just a beat. Not enough to turn it into a jog, but enough to signal she’s still mad. I don’t know how I feel about the fact that she is duplicating my childish behavior. I’m not sure If that is endearing or terrifying.
“Wendigo? Like an evil Native American wood spirit that can turn into a giant monster? Something that kinda looks like a fucking werewolf-bear hybrid with long claws?”
“Close. You left out the man-eating part, other than that, yeah, pretty much. Not sure I could describe her any better.”
“Great,” I exclaim. Of course, opposing counsel turns into something out of a dark twisted nightmare. Aren’t there any nice Advocates? Ones that maybe turn into unicorns or some benevolent creatures?”
Sinn shakes her head. “None that I can think of. And unicorns are dicks.”
“Really?” I ask in surprise.
Sinn nods. “How do you even know what a wendigo is? Have you actually been reading your family journals?”
“Of course.” The white lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. I’ve been trying to get around to reading them, but I have absolutely zero free time. I’ve skimmed them. And I don’t remember seeing anything about wendigos or unicorns. All the knowledge I have about wendigos comes from television and horror movies. I think from that supernatural cable tv show; you know, the one with the two brothers that fight monsters. I think they fought a wendigo once. They always drop good monster knowledge on that show. Not wanting to have to answer another question with a lie of a different color, I ask, “Anything else you can tell me about Makki?�
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Sinn looks uncomfortable. “Makki has . . . large . . . breasts.”
Now I’m feeling uncomfortable. “Why do I care about her cup size?”
“She has huge, distracting watermelons.” Sinn moves her hands so they caress giant imaginary beachballs in front of her chest. “And she dresses to accentuate them.”
“O—kay?”
“Don’t give me that look, you’ll see tomorrow. I’m only warning you so you're prepared and don’t stare like an idiot. They are huge.”
“Like I would do that.” Actually, that is probably exactly what I would do.
Sinn crosses her arms and makes a pouty shape with her lips, clearly not buying what I’m selling.
Note to self: do not let Sinn catch you staring at the wendigo’s breasts tomorrow. Also, I might want to Google that wendigo episode when I get home. And read my family journals, just in case the cable show isn’t entirely accurate. I might also want to check Wikipedia. Best to cover all bases.