Hunt the Moon

Page 27

“You’re a bastard,” I said with feeling.
“I assure you, my parents were properly wed. And I was merely going to say that you’re right.”
“I know I’m right!” I blinked. “What?”
“I should have warned you that they were here, but I did not expect you to be quite so . . . bold.”
And no, he probably hadn’t, I realized. He’d probably expected me to come out in a robe or a towel, or at least to poke my head around the door first. Not to storm out like the bathroom was on fire. Or like a really, really inept stripper.
I winced and let my head fall forward. “That’s me,” I told him miserably. “I’m bold.”
“To a frightening degree at times,” he murmured, combing his fingers through my wet curls.
“I don’t try to be.”
“I know.”
We just stood there a while, and it felt really good. He was freshly washed, with his dark hair still damp and combed back from his face, and he was wearing a robe like mine. I guessed that either the suite had a second bathroom or, considering how the hotel manager had been pretty much genuflecting, they’d opened another room for him. Or possibly the entire floor.
Anyway, this was better. This was the best part of the date so far.
Not that that was saying much.
“Cassie?”
“Hm?”
“You can’t stay in the bathroom all night.”
“Why not?”
“It’s wet.”
“Don’t care.”
“It’s going to get cold.”
“Don’t care.”
“And you’ll miss dinner.”
I looked up, feeling a slight bit of hope creeping in past the utter mortification. “Dinner?”
“Dinner,” he said, and pulled me out the door.
Chapter Fourteen
We reentered the living room and I figured out what everyone had been doing over by the fireplace. Flames danced on a row of silver chafing dishes, which had been strung out along the hearth to keep them warm. In front of them was a picnic area, if picnics featured silk cushions, bone china, linen so white it gleamed and napkins tortured into little birds of paradise. There was a single rose in a crystal vase that reflected the firelight. It was lovely.
It was also less interesting than the contents of those dishes, which smelled heavenly. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch and it had been a busy night. I knelt in front of the fire and picked up the first lid, happy and hopeful and starving and—
“What’s this?” I asked, perplexed.
Mircea looked over my shoulder. “Pan-seared foie gras with cherries and foie gras caramel.”
I put the lid back. Duck liver had never done a lot for me, no matter what they cooked it with. “And this?” I was staring into the second offering.
“Poireaux vinaigrette aux grains de caviar.”
I did a quick translation. “Leeks and fish eggs in vinegar?”
He grinned. “It sounds better in French.”
Yeah, but did it taste better? Door number three had crab and artichokes in Pernod, which would have been fine, except that I hated two out of the three. Door number four offered up more artichokes—must have been a sale—with gnocchi and herbed cheese. Door number five had more foie gras, this time stuffed into a duck breast. Door number six had—
“What is this?” I looked up at Mircea hopefully, because the stew had potatoes and onions and some kind of meat in a rich sauce and smelled awesome.
“Hossenfeffer. It’s one of the house specialties.”
“Hossenfeffer?” It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t—
“Rabbit stew.”
I looked up at him tragically.
“Is there a problem?” Mircea asked carefully.
“I used to have a pet rabbit,” I said, seeing Honeybun’s black eyes staring at me accusingly.
Mircea bit his lip. “This date isn’t going so well, is it?” he asked, half-amused, half-despairing. I recognized the look because I felt pretty much the same way.
“It’s . . . well . . . you know,” I said, and then realized I didn’t have anything else to say, so I shut up.
My stomach growled.
We regarded the last little dish in forlorn hope.
“You look,” I told him. I probably wouldn’t know what the hell it was anyway.
He leaned over and removed the lid, and some really wonderful smells steamed out. But I wasn’t going to get excited, not this time, because it was probably Bambi in shallots or Nemo with fennel or—
“It’s some kind of pork,” he told me.
That didn’t sound so bad. But then, neither had the others until I did a little translating. I moved closer and peered inside. And saw—
“It’s ribs and fries,” I said, in something approaching awe.
“Amish roasted pork loin with potatoes and apple-baked cabbage,” he said, reading off a little menu card I hadn’t noticed before.
“It’s ribs and fries,” I said, so happy I could have cried.
Mircea slanted me a glance. “It does look delicious. I believe I may—”
“Don’t even think about it.” I grabbed the dish and a plate and chowed down, while he watched with illconcealed amusement. He started on the rabbit. I tried not to notice.
The ribs were succulent and falling-off-the-bone tender, the apple-baked cabbage was a little sauerkraut in a hollowed-out apple that I pushed aside as the garnish it was, and the fries were the English kind, thick-cut wedges of golden potato that went great with fish but turned out to be pretty good with pork, too. And so was the wine, some Riesling or other that was crisp and fresh and tart on my tongue, and oh yeah . . .
This was more like it.
Mircea laughed, and I looked up. “What?”
“It’s merely . . . good to see someone enjoying their meal.”
“Bet you wish you hadn’t had that gourmet stuff now.”
Gleaming dark eyes regarded me over his wineglass. “You didn’t give me a choice. And I’m surprised you don’t care for that ‘gourmet stuff.’ I recall Antonio having quite a good chef.”
Yeah, till he ate him, I didn’t say, because we were having a nice dinner. “How did you end up changing that bastard anyway?” I asked instead. “I always wondered. I mean, he was just a chicken farmer, right?”
Mircea shook his head. “Not when I met him. He had inherited the farm, such as it was, when his father died, and used the money from its sale to move to Florence. There he became . . . I suppose you would call him the strongman for a small money-lending operation.”
“A thug, in other words.”
“As you say. But a thug with ambition. He eventually gained control of the business—”
“Imagine that.”
“—and under his hand, it grew considerably in size. By the time I met him, he was a man of some means.”
“That doesn’t explain why you changed him.”
“You might say that we had . . . complementary problems,” he said, refilling his glass with the red wine he preferred. He tilted the bottle at me.
I shook my head. “I’ll stay with this one. And what kind of problems?”
“In Tony’s case, it was the plague. The Black Death cut a swath through Italy every few decades in those days, and at the time it was raging in Florence. There was no cure; the only way to combat it was to flee. And Antonio tried, moving himself and his household to the country as soon as he heard.”
“But he got it anyway?”
“No, but several of his servants did and he was afraid he would be next. He therefore moved again—and again and again. But everywhere he went, it was already there or it broke out shortly afterward. He told me it was as if the plague was following him.”
I nodded. That sounded like Tony. He was paranoid even when he didn’t have a reason.
“He finally ended up in Venice, hoping to get a ship to somewhere without the disease. But he was told by the sailors he talked to that it was everywhere that year.”
“And he started freaking out.”
Mircea smiled. “To put it mildly. He was in a taverna, drowning his sorrows, when I met him. At the time, I was in dire straits myself—financially speaking. I had left my home with little some years before and had . . . someone with me for whom I was responsible. I needed money for living expenses, and also to allow me to avoid a certain first-level master who had decided to add me to her family—by force if necessary. She had tracked me to Venice, and I had narrowly avoided her twice in as many days. I wanted to get away; Antonio wanted to avoid the plague. We struck a deal.”
“He gave you money and you Changed him,” I guessed. “Because vamps can’t get the disease.”
“Yes.” Mircea swirled his wine around. “He was the first child I ever made. It came as . . . quite a shock . . . when he threw in his lot with our enemies.”
“You thought him better than that?” I asked incredulously.
Mircea snorted. “I thought him smarter than that. I also thought it out of character.”
“Because it was a gamble.”
He nodded. “And Antonio doesn’t. Not with his neck, at any rate.”
I’d thought as much myself, more than once. Tony only liked to gamble when it was a sure thing. It made me wonder what he knew that we didn’t.
Mircea finished his meal and then lay on his side, a hand under his head and the other toying with his wineglass. “Why the sudden interest?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about my parents and how Tony is probably the only person who could tell me much about them.”
“What about the venerable mage Marsden? He must know something about the former Pythian heir. I would be surprised if he hadn’t met her on occasion.”
“He did. But all he could tell me was that she was a charming young woman. As far as facts go, all I got was the standard bio stuff they’d give to a newspaper or something. Born Elizabeth O’Donnell, adopted by the Pythian Court at age fourteen, named the heir at age thirty-three. Ran away with Ragnar, aka Roger Palmer, my disreputable father, for reasons unknown, at age thirty-four. Died five years later in a car bomb set by Tony the Bastard. The End.”