Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,81

we're invincible. We are invincible. But eventually, that feeling wears off and it gets replaced by an awareness of how fragile everything is. We have to be careful; we have to keep ourselves hidden because the human appetite is too ferocious.” I don't mean to let all these words out, but now that I've started, they keep coming. “We waited too long, and humanity's hunger is out of control now. They're like childish Arcadians, inured to their mortality. They want to feel something—anything—to give them hope that death is not the end. They're too frightened otherwise. Too frightened to sit in stillness and hear how inconsequential they are to the world, and yet how marvelous their entire existence is.”

“We want to feel something in order to stop thinking about nothing,” she whispers.

“And here we are,” I say, glancing around. I spot our waiter returning with two drinks. We silently watch him put each on the table, perfectly aligned with our untouched food. He hesitates for a second, seeing that we've not taken a bite, and then takes his cue from the way Mere reaches for her drink. Intuiting the minefield he is standing beside, he bows slightly and vanishes again.

Mere holds her drink out. “To us,” she says. “Stupidly blundering through life.”

“Lying to ourselves,” I say, picking up my glass and clinking it against hers.

“Making a wreck of things,” she adds after taking a sip.

I tap glasses again. “Pretending we're not alone,” I say. The drink is smooth and marvelous, and I try to remember if I was ever in Calvados during the apple harvest.

She takes a big swallow of hers. “Pretending we don't want each other,” she says, offering her glass again. When I don't immediate tap my glass against hers, her eyebrows pull together. “Oh, da—” she starts, her words barely slipping out of her throat.

I tap her glass hard enough to make them ring. “To living long enough to laugh about our mistakes,” I say, and then I down the rest of the cocktail. It's not that sort of drink, but I don't think I can handle any more sharing right now.

“Silas,” she says. She's not looking at me, though; her gaze is on something over my shoulder. I look, and spot a familiar bald head near the archway into the restaurant. Talus and I make eye contact for a moment, and then he turns and leaves the restaurant.

“Eat up.” I raise my hand, trying to catch our waiter's eye. When he comes to the table, I smile and indicate my empty glass. “Another round please,” I say, “Oh, and I'll need a large bowl of raw spinach, the largest piece of raw beef you have, and an equal amount of raw tuna.”

He nods, completely unfazed, and vanishes to do my bidding.

“Eat up,” I tell Mere. “This may be our last meal.”

Talus wanted to be seen. He'll be waiting outside. I don't see any reason to rush things. The food is good; the company is better. I might as well enjoy the respite we've been offered.

* * *

He stands on the mezzanine with his back to the restaurant as if he is intently studying the sculptures below. He's wearing a dark gray suit made from polished virgin wool, and his skin is ruddy without being sun-burned. His head has been recently shaved and moisturized. He turns as we exit the restaurant; he's not wearing a tie and his beard has been groomed to a dignified shape. He looks well-rested and well-fed. When he smiles, I don't believe him, and the fact that he tries to be genial alarms me even more than seeing him here.

“How was dinner?” he asks. His nostrils tighten. “You had the beef?”

“I did,” I reply.

“Bloody?”

“Very.”

He nods as if that was to be expected and turns his gaze upon Mere. “It is good to see you again, Ms. Vanderhaven.”

“Fuck you,” Mere says. She had my second drink after bolting hers. I didn't mind.

For a split second, Talus struggles to maintain his veneer and I see the angry man who stared me down on the boat, but he manages to plaster another smile on his face and shrug off her comment.

“Any chance the lady gets to go home?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Mere takes my arm. “Well,” she says, “at least he didn't say ‘no.'” She's shivering lightly, and I tamp my anger down.

Talus grins again, and this time I really see the man I remember. He wants me to do something stupid.