Reckoning Page 0,38

wondered who watered them, and a sharp high giggle died in my throat.

“The décor is awful,” Christophe finally said, evenly. “But the concierge swears the food is good. Do you want wine?”

I shook my head. My hair, still damp, slid against my shoulders. It wasn’t even worth tying back. The aspect was a warmth just under my skin, easing the cramping stiffness of sitting in a car all day.

I cleared my throat. The hum of conversation and clinking of forks against dishes was low music. “The clothes.” I sounded rusty. “Where did you—”

One corner of his mouth quirked up. “I have my methods. Hmm. A primavera for you, probably. Something light. Do you object if I order?”

Another shake of my head. Christophe was immaculate again, and the maitre d’ hadn’t blinked at what either of us were wearing. Then again, the jeans were designer, Christophe’s habitual paperthin black sweater was obviously expensive, and Christophe himself had the easy elegance of a fashion magazine come to earth.

I was distinctly outclassed. And how creepy was it that he’d figured out my new sizes? Did they teach that at the Schola? How to size up a girl’s hips with a glance?

Not that I was complaining, really. But still. It was another thing to try not to think about.

“I think I prefer steak. We’ll start with bruschetta, unless you’re a calamari fan . . . no? Very well. What do you want to drink, if not wine?”

“They won’t give me wine.” It was a scandalized whisper. I scrubbed at my cheeks with my fingers, trying to make the tears stop. Thankfully, they were drying up. “Jesus, Christophe!”

That earned me one amused glance. “They’ll give you whatever I say. You worry too much. No matter. What do you want?”

“Diet Coke. If they have it.” I didn’t mean to sound snide. It was actually a relief that he looked so unaffected. The tight ball of panic inside me eased a little. It smelled nice in here—green and fresh and garlicky. Expensive. Quiet, like there was no way a vampire would ever burst in and tear the place up.

He just shrugged, still staring at the menu. “Ruins the palate, but all right. Dru—”

I was saved by a quick little brown penguin of a waiter rolling up to the table. He reeled off the specials in heavily accented English, and Christophe’s eyes actually lit up. He laid the menu down, folded his hands, and busted out something that sounded like Italian.

The waiter looked shocked for a second, but then they started gabbling like old friends. A busboy in a snow-white jacket brought a plate of crusty, steaming bread slices and a little crock thing of butter, a decanter of olive oil and one of balsamic vinegar, as well as a small terra-cotta tub that reeked of heavenly roasted garlic. He also set down two wineglasses and vanished.

The table was going to get crowded if this kept up.

Christophe handed the menus back to the waiter, who actually bowed and backed away.

I grabbed for my water glass. It sloshed a little, because my hand was shaking. “What was all that?”

“He’s Neapolitan; I wanted to practice. Just relax.” Christophe glanced over my shoulder, and I realized he was sitting where Dad would’ve, if Dad could’ve been persuaded to set foot in here. I was tucked back out of sight behind a lattice full of what had to be grape leaves, but Christophe could see almost the whole restaurant, including the opening where the waiters and busboys flowed back and forth like minnows, with efficient little bustling movements. “Have some bread. They spread the garlic on it. Nosferat repellant.”

“Really?” I perked up a little at that.

His face changed slightly. “No. It was a joke. Although the Maharaj have a prohibition against eating garlic. And leeks. But only for their few women.”

I shivered. We hadn’t covered Maharaj very much at the Schola—they were a third-year-class item, like command-and-control systems and the really in-depth Paranormal Physiology courses. And that was when you started learning combat sorcery, too.

The Maharaj were great at sorcery.

For a moment I remembered my bedroom in the Dakotas and the dreamstealer hissing, and the seizures locking every muscle in my body until Christophe threw water over me. I’d found out enough from my tutors at the Schola Prima to shudder at just how much his quick thinking had saved my life.

“Moj boze.” Christophe sighed, laid his hands on the table. Nice, capable hands, his nails clean and the chunky silver watch