Wayward Son - Rainbow Rowell Page 0,73
Bunce says. “You’re a brand-new man.”
He shrugs. “Are we ready?” To me: “Is your phone charged?”
* * *
I take a cab to the restaurant, and they follow in Shepard’s truck. I don’t want to be seen driving up with anyone.
I changed into one of my new suits before we left. Black this time, with a heather-and-gold flowered shirt. (I suppose Bunce isn’t the only one who can’t let go of Watford purple.) “You’re going to a strip mall,” Simon said. “Won’t you be overdressed?”
“Good choice,” Shepard said, sizing me up.
He’s right again: When I walk into the restaurant, Lamb is waiting in the lobby, wearing sunglasses and a three-piece suit. Tiffany blue. Which sounds vulgar, but very much isn’t. He looks trim and fresh.
“There’s a wait,” Lamb says, “there’s always a wait.” He lifts his sunglasses. “Don’t you look rosy.…”
I raise an eyebrow, which is my go-to move when I want to look cool but don’t have anything cool to say.
Lamb’s wariness from last night is gone. He seems to have reset himself to the easy charm from when we first met. So I reset, too. (I can be droll, I can pretend that nothing matters—it’s practically my neutral state.)
A hostess takes us to our table. The restaurant is as unassuming inside as out. “Let me order,” Lamb says, opening his menu. “The thum ka noon is superb.”
He orders half a dozen things without bothering to translate for me. And then he sits back in his chair and smiles. Last night, I took that smile at face value.
“So…” he says, “Baz.” He lets my name hang in the air. “What’s that short for?”
“Barry,” I say. Which is true. For some people. (I promised Bunce I’d do my best to lie today.)
“Baz suits you.” Lamb’s eyes are sparkling again; he must be able to turn it off and on. I can still feel it working on me. “Tell me why you want to know about the Next Blood, Baz.”
“I told you—they have my friend.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“What do you know?” he asks. His sunglasses are pushed up above his forehead, and a lock of slippery hair falls into his eyes.
“That she was on a retreat with the Next Blood. She didn’t know what they were. And then she disappeared.”
“So you’re not looking for them because you’re interested in signing up.…”
I sit back. I hadn’t realized I was leaning forward. “What? No.”
“Because they are our enemy, Baz.” Lamb’s eyes are still smiling, but it’s a sad smile, pulled down at the corners.
“Whose enemy?” I say. “The Vampires of Las Vegas?”
He licks his bottom lip and winces. “Please stop using that word. And none of that nonsense about ‘reclaiming’ it—it draws attention.”
“Whose enemy?” I ask again. More quietly.
“Ours,” he says. “Our entire brotherhood, here and everywhere.”
“Lamb. I don’t understand.…”
He narrows his eyes. “I’m beginning to think you really don’t. You’re lying to me about—about nearly everything—but you really don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Things are different in England, we’re cut off—I thought you understood.”
“I do.”
We’re interrupted then. A waiter has brought our first dish, some sort of crispy pork, still sizzling.
It happens immediately, and I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting it (pork is the worst, sometimes I’d have to leave the Watford dining hall on days they served bacon)—my fangs slide down into place.
Lamb is spooning some of the pork onto a dish for me. “The Next Blood,” he says. “They call themselves that, by the way—” He glances up at me and stops speaking. His face falls. “Baz.”
He’s noticed, of course he’s noticed. I keep my mouth closed. (Haven’t his fangs popped? Are they about to?) He looks shocked. And concerned.
“Take a deep breath,” he says softly.
I do. That makes it worse. My sinuses are burning, and my mouth is full of saliva. It’s all I can do not to bare my teeth.
Lamb moves the dish away from me, casually, like he’s making room between us.
“Look at me.” His voice is low.
I look at him. I lock my eyes on his.
“Breathe,” he says.
I do.
“This is an animal response,” Lamb says. “And you are not an animal.”
He hasn’t blinked. I nod.
“You are a man, Baz. You are in control, not the thirst. You don’t just take what you want when you want it. I’ve seen that—you weren’t even tempted last night.”
A waiter sets another dish between us. Chicken. Coconut milk. Curry.
“How do you control yourself?” Lamb asks. “When you’re thirsty, and there’s a beating heart laid before you?”
“I—”
“Do not open