by Melissa Marr
She frowned and looked back at the hostess, who was now watching them carefully. "If you're a regular, I'm sorry, but I don't remember—"
"No. I'm not." He ran a finger down her wrist, violating mortal etiquette, but unable to resist. She was his. It wasn't official yet, but that didn't matter. He smiled at her, letting his glamour drop for a fraction of a moment, showing her his true face—testing her, seeking fear or longing—and added, "Just order whatever you think we'd like. Surprise me. I enjoy a good surprise."
Her waitress façade slipped a little; her heartbeat fluttered. And he felt it, the brief surge of panic. He couldn't taste it, not yet, not truly, but almost—like a pungent aroma wafting from a kitchen, teasing hints of flavors he couldn't swallow.
He opened the black-lacquered cigarette case he favored of late and drew out a cigarette, watching her try to make sense of him. "Can you do that, Leslie? Take care of me?"
She nodded, slowly. "Do you have any allergies or—"
"Not to anything on your menu. Neither of us does." He tapped his cigarette on the table, packing it, watching her until she looked away. She glanced at Gabriel. "Order for you too?"
Gabriel shrugged as Irial said, "Yes, for both of us."
"Are you sure?" She watched him intently, and Irial suspected that she was already feeling something of the changes that would soon roll over her. Her eyes had dilated ever so slightly when her fears rose and faded. Later tonight, when she thought of him, she'd think he was just an odd man, memorable for that alone. It would be a while until her mind would let her process the extent of her changing body. Mortals had so many mental defenses to make sense of the things that violated their preconceptions and rules. At times those defenses were quite useful to him.
He lit his cigarette, stalling just to watch her squirm a touch more. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, once more being completely inappropriate for the guise he wore and for the setting. "I think you'll bring me exactly what I need."
Terror surged, tangling around an unmistakable blaze of desire and a bit of anger. Her smile didn't waver, though.
"I'll put your order in, then," she said as she took a step backward, pulling her hand free of his grip.
He took a drag on his cigarette as he watched her walk away. The dark smoky line between them stretched and wound through the room like a path he could follow.
Soon.
At the doorway, she looked back at him, and he could almost taste her terror as it peaked.
He licked his lips.
Very soon.
Chapter 6
Leslie slipped into the kitchen, leaned on the wall, and tried not to fall to pieces. Her hands shook. Someone else needed to handle the odd guest; she felt frightened by his attention, his too-intense stare, his words.
"You okay, ma belle? the pastry chef, Etienne, asked. He was a wiry man with a temper that flared to life over the oddest things, but he was just as irrationally kind. Tonight, kind appeared to be the mood of choice, or at least this hour it was.
"Sure." She pasted a smile back on her face, but it was less than convincing.
"Sick? Hungry? Faint?" Etienne prompted.
"I'm fine, just a demanding guest, too touchy, too everything. He wants … Maybe you could figure out what to order—" She stopped, feeling inexplicably angry at herself for thinking, even for that brief second, of having someone else order his food. No. That wouldn't work. Her anger and fear receded. She straightened her shoulders and rattled off a list of her favorite foods, complete with the marquise au chocolat.
"That's not on the dessert menu tonight," one of the prep cooks objected.
Etienne winked. "For Leslie it is. I have emergency dessert for special reasons."
Leslie felt relieved, irrationally so, that Etienne's rum-soaked chocolate decadence was available. It wasn't as if the customer had asked for it, but she wanted to give it to him, wanted to please him. "You're the best."
"Oui, I know." Etienne shrugged as if it were nothing, but his smile belied the expression. "You should tell Robert this. Often. He forgets how lucky he is that I stay here."
Leslie laughed, relaxing a bit under Etienne's irresistible charm. It was no secret that the owner, Robert, would do almost anything to please Etienne, a fact that Etienne pretended not to notice.
"The order for table six is up," another voice called out, and Leslie resumed her work, smile sliding back into place as she lifted the steaming dishes.
As the shift wore on, Leslie caught herself looking at the two odd guests often enough that she had a difficult time concentrating on her other tables.
Tips will be low if this keeps up.
It wasn't like touchy guests were unheard of. Guys seemed to think that because she waited tables she'd be easily swayed by a little charm and affluence. She smiled and flirted a bit with male diners; she smiled and listened a few minutes longer with older guests; and she smiled and paid attention to the families with children. It was simply how it went at Verlaine's. Robert liked the waitstaff to treat the guests personably. Of course, that ended at the threshold of the restaurant. She didn't date anyone she met on duty; she wouldn't even give her number.
I would with him, though.
He looked comfortable in his skin, but also like he'd be able to hold his own in the shadowy parts of the city. And he was beautiful—not his features, but the way he moved. It reminded her of Niall. And he's probably just as unavailable.
The guest watched her in much the same way Niall did, too—with attentive gazes and lingering smiles. If a guy at a club looked at her that way, she'd expect him to hit on her. Niall hadn't, despite her encouragement; maybe this one wouldn't go further either.
"Leslie?" The guest couldn't have spoken loudly enough for her to hear him, but she did. She turned, and he gestured for her to come closer.
She finished taking an order from one of the weekly regulars and just barely resisted the urge to run across the room. She navigated the space between the tables without taking her eyes off of him, stepping around the busboy and another waiter, pausing and moving between a couple leaving the restaurant.
"Did you need something?" Her voice came out too soft, too breathy. A brief flicker of embarrassment rolled over her and then faded as quickly as it had risen.
"Do you—" He broke off, smiling at someone behind her, looking as if he'd laugh in the next moment.
Leslie turned. A crowd of people she didn't know stood in a small circle around Aislinn, who was waving at her. Friends weren't welcome at work; Aislinn knew that, but she started walking across the room toward Leslie. Leslie looked back at the guest. "I'm so sorry. Just one second?"
"Absolutely fine, love." He pulled out another cigarette, going through the same ritual as before—snapping the case shut, tapping the cigarette on the tabletop, and flicking the lighter open. His gaze didn't waver from her. "I'm not going anywhere."
She turned to face Aislinn. "What are you doing? You can't just—"
"The hostess said I could ask you to wait on us." Aislinn motioned at the large group she'd come in with. "There's not a table in your section, but I wanted you."
"I can't," Leslie said. "I have a full section."
"One of the other waitresses could take your tables, and—"
"And my tips." Leslie shook her head. She didn't want to tell Aislinn how badly she needed that money or how her stomach clenched at the possibility of walking away from the eerily compelling guest behind her. "Sorry, Ash. I can't."
But the hostess came over and said, "Can you take the group and your tables, or do I need to have someone pick up your tables so you can take them?"
Anger surged in Leslie, fleeting but strong. Her smile was pained, but she kept it in place. "I can take both."
With a hostile look at the table behind Leslie, Aislinn went back to her party. The hostess left too, and Leslie was seething. She turned to face him.
He took a long drag off the cigarette and exhaled. "Well, then. She seems
territorial. I suppose that little look was a don't-hit-on-my-friend message?"
"I'm sorry about that." She winced.
"Are you two together?"
"No." Leslie blushed. "I'm not… I mean—"
"Is there someone else? A friend of hers you see?" His voice was as delicious as the best of Etienne's desserts, rich and decadent, meant to be savored.
Unbidden she thought of Niall, her fantasy date. She shook her head. "No. There's no one."
"Perhaps I should return on a less-crowded night, then?" He traced a finger up the underside of her wrist, touching her for the third time.
"Maybe." She felt the odd urge to run—not that he was any less tempting, but he was looking at her so intently that she was certain he wasn't anywhere near safe.
He pulled out a handful of bills. "For dinner."
Then he stood and stepped close enough to her that her instinct to flee flared to life; she felt suddenly sick in the stomach. He tucked the money into her hand. "I'll see you another night."
She stepped backward, away from him. "But your food isn't up yet." He followed, invading her space, moving so close that it would seem normal only if they were about to dance or kiss.
"I don't share well."
“But—“
"No worries, love. I'll be back when your friend isn't around to snarl at me."
"But your dinner …" She looked from him to the bills in her hand. Oh my gods. Leslie was startled out of her confusion by the realization of how much she was holding: they were all large bills. She immediately tried to hand some of them back. "Wait. You made a mistake."
"No mistake at all."
“But—“
He leaned in so he whispered in her ear, "You're worth emptying my coffers for."
For a moment she thought she felt something soft wrap around her. Wings.
Then he pulled back. "Go tend to your friend. I'll see you again when she's not watching."
And he walked away, leaving her motionless in the middle of the room, clutching more money than she'd ever seen in her life.
Chapter 7
When Niall reached Verlaine's, Irial had gone. Two of the guards who'd been outside the restaurant were bleeding badly from teeth marks in their arms. Some embarrassing part of him wished he'd been sent for sooner, but he quashed that thought before it became one he had to consider. When Irial acted against the Summer Court faeries, Niall was always summoned. The Dark King often refused to strike Niall. Gabriel, on the other hand, had no compunction against wounding Niall and often seemed to be more violent toward Niall when Irial was near.
"The Gabriel" — one of the rowan shuddered—"he just walked up and ripped into us."
"Why?" Niall looked around, seeking some clue, some indication of a reason that Gabriel would do so. Niall might've chosen to avoid the Dark King's left hand as often as possible, but he hadn't forgotten the things he'd learned in the Dark Court: Gabriel didn't ever act without reason. It mightn't be a reason that the Summer Court understood, but there was always a reason. Niall knew that. It was part of why he was an asset to the Summer Court: he understood the less gentle tendencies of the other courts.
"Mortal girl talked to the Gabriel and Dark King," a rowan-woman said as she wrapped her bloody biceps. She clenched the end of a strip of spider silk between her teeth as she bound her arm. Niall would offer to help her, but he knew she'd trained with the glaistigs. It made her a great fighter, but it also meant anything that looked like mercy would be summarily rejected.
Niall looked away. He could see Leslie through the window: she smiled at the Summer Queen and refilled a glass of water. It wasn't an unusual task, or an exciting one, but as he watched her, his throat suddenly felt dry. He wanted to go to her, wanted to … do things he should not dream of doing with mortals. Without meaning to, he'd crossed the street, stepped close to that window, and rested his hand on it. The cold glass was a thin barrier; he could crack it with just a bit of pressure, feel the edges slice into his skin, go to her, and sink his body into hers. I could let her see me. I could—
"Niall?" The rowan-woman stood beside him, staring through the window. "Do we need to go in?"
"No." Niall pulled his gaze away from Leslie, forced his thoughts back to something less alluring. He'd been watching her for months; there was no reason for his sudden surge of irrational thoughts. Perhaps his guard was down from thinking of Irial. Niall shook his head in self-disgust.
"Go home. Aislinn has plenty of guards with her, and I'll watch the queen's mortal," he said.
Without any further comment, the rowan and her companions left, and Niall crossed back to the alcove where he'd waited out so many of Leslie's shifts at Verlaine's. He leaned against the brick wall, feeling the familiar edges press into his back, and watched the faces of the mortals and faeries in the street. He forced himself to think about what he was, what he'd done before he knew who Irial was, before he knew how twisted Irial was. All things that mean I should not touch Leslie. Ever.
When Niall had first walked among them, he'd found mortals enthralling. They were filled with passion and desperation, carving out what joy they could in their all-too-finite lives, and most were willing to lift their skirts for a few kind words from his lips. He shouldn't miss their dizzying willingness and mortal touch. He knew better. Sometimes, though, if he looked too closely at what he knew himself to be, he did miss it.
The girl was weeping, clutching Niall's arm, when the dark-haired faery approached. The girl had bared herself when she entered the wood and had innumerable scratches on her flesh.
"She's an affectionate thing," the faery said.
Niall shook her off again. "She's been drinking, I suspect. She wasn't so" — he grabbed her hand as she began unfastening his breeches—"aggressive last week."
"Indeed." The dark-haired faery laughed. "Like animals, aren't they?"
"Mortals?" Niall stepped closer to him, dodging the girl's agile hands. "They seem to hide it well enough at first. … They change, though."
The other faery laughed and caught the girl up in his arms. "Maybe you're just irresistible."
Niall straightened his clothes now that the girl was contained. She stayed motionless in the other faery's grasp, looking from one to the other like she was insensible.
The dark-haired faery watched Niall with a curious grin. "I'm Irial. Perhaps we could take this one somewhere less" — he looked up the path toward the mortals' town—"public." The lascivious look on Irial's face was the most enticing thing Niall had ever seen. He had a brief flash of terror at his tangled mix of feelings. Then Irial licked his lips and laughed. "Come now, Niall. I think you could use a bit of company, couldn't you?"
Later he wondered why he hadn't been suspicious at Irial's knowing his name. At the time all Niall could think of was that the nearer he got to Irial, the more it felt like stumbling upon a feast and realizing he'd never tasted anything until that moment. It was an intensity he'd never felt before— and he loved it.
Over the next six years, Irial stayed with Niall for months at a time. When Irial was at his side, Niall indulged in debauched pleasures with more mortals than he'd known he could lie with at one time. But it wasn't ever enough. No matter how many days Niall lost in a blur of yielding flesh, he was never satisfied for long. There were equally dizzying days when it was just them, dining on exotic foods, drunk on foreign wines, touring new lands, listening to glorious songs, talking about everything. It was perfect—for a while. If I hadn't gone to his bruig and seen the mortals there in Irial's domain … Niall wasn't sure who he'd hated more when he realized what a fool he'd been.
"It's been too long, Gancanagh." Gabriel's voice was an almost-welcome interruption of the unpleasant memories. The Hound stood on the edge of the street, just close enough to traffic to be clipped by careless drivers but far enough to be mostly safe. Ignoring the flow of cars, he looked up and down the sidewalk. "The rowan gone?"
"Yes." Niall glanced at the dark faery's forear
m, checking to see if there were words he should know, almost hoping Irial'd ordered Gabriel to do something that would allow Niall to strike out.
Gabriel noticed. With a wicked grin, he turned his arms so Niall could see the undersides. "No messages for you. One of these days, I'll get a chance to give you a matching scar on the other side of your pretty face, but not yet."
"So you keep saying, but he never gives you permission." Niall shrugged. He wasn't sure if it was because he was impervious to the terror of the Hounds' presence or because he'd walked away from Irial, but Gabriel brought up old pains every chance he could—and Niall usually let it go. Tonight, however, Niall didn't feel very tolerant, so he asked, "Do you suppose Iri just likes me more than you, Gabriel?"
For several of Niall's too-fast heartbeats, Gabriel simply stared at him. Then he said, "You're the only one who doesn't seem to know that answer."
Before Niall could reply, Gabriel slammed his fist into Niall's face, turned, and walked away.
Blinking his eyes against the sudden pain, Niall watched the Hound saunter down the street and calmly wrap his hands around the throats of two Dark Court fey who'd apparently been lurking nearby. Gabriel lifted the Ly Ergs and choked them until the faeries went limp. Then he slung them over his shoulders and took off in such a blur of speed that small dust devils swirled to life in his wake.
Gabriel's violence wasn't unusual, but the lack of obvious orders on the Hound's skin was enough to make Niall wary. It was inevitable that the semi-peace that resulted from Beira's death would cause ripples in the other courts. How Irial dealt with that should concern Niall only as far as protecting his true court—the Summer Court—but Niall had a residual moment of concern for the Dark King, a twinge that he had no intention of ever admitting aloud.
Leslie was pleasantly surprised that Aislinn was waiting on the curb outside the restaurant when her shift ended. They used to meet up after work sometimes, but everything had changed over the winter.
