Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
The thought is almost too strange to comprehend. Of course it’s flattering, in a way, to know he wants to show me off—that he’s proud of me. But still…am I just a status symbol and a blood bank to him? Or am I something more?
I still have no answers to those questions.
Lucian speaks again, more businesslike now, interrupting my thoughts.
“If Kael continues to interfere in other realms, we will have to respond,” he says. “He attempted to take my Curvy Queen from me.”
“An insult which cannot be tolerated, to be sure,” Don Malthus replies, his voice soft and deadly. “And if the Shifter Don becomes emboldened, he will also require… correction.”
Lucian nods, his eyes hard..
“We can’t move openly. The Magistrate is always watching.”
“The Magistrate watches everything,” Don Malthus agrees. “But he does not act without reason.”
Lucian leans back slightly, his gaze glittering with menace.
“Then we must give him no reason. Vengeance must be taken covertly—correction must be meted out discretely.”
I stare into my plate, my appetite fading. I’m sitting between two monsters discussing political violence like it’s a stock market strategy. Is this what it means to be a Mafia wife? Excuse me—a Curvy Queen?
Apparently so.
Before I can think about it too deeply, though, the third course arrives.
This time Lucian gets a slab of something rare and lightly seared—blood-steak, maybe—still bleeding darkly onto the bone-white china plate. It’s served with charred greens and topped with something that looks like black truffle shaved into curls.
For me there’s a creamy pasta dish with mushrooms and parmesan, topped with fresh herbs. It smells amazing and I can’t help being impressed. I love mushrooms and this looks like comfort food turned high-end.
For Don Malthus the servants bring a pale, translucent “fruit” arrangement that looks like slices of apple and piles of grapes made from fog. He makes the motions of eating, and the pieces fade away as if consumed by nothingness itself.
This time I don’t stare so much—maybe I’m getting used to the Necro Don. Not that I want to get any closer to him than I am now—especially not knowing what he can do to people. He’s scary in a way that even Lucian isn’t—but maybe that’s because Lucian cares for me. At least, I think he does.
As we eat, Don Malthus asks me more questions in a tone that’s polite, careful, and curious.
“How do your humans treat their dead?” he asks, his voice quiet but resonant. “I see them when I come to fetch their souls, but I have never yet observed what is done with the bodies afterwards. Well, except for the Pharos and their elaborate tombs. I believe, however, that their practices have died out in your time.
I swallow, willing the bite of mushroom pasta not to stick in my throat.
“It depends. Some bury their loved ones and some cremate them. But really, it doesn’t matter what happens to the bodies—because the ones we love always live in our memories.” I think of my own parents, who died when I was young and my grandmother, who died recently. Did Don Malthus come to collect their souls? Does he take all the souls himself, or does he have helpers? Like a macabre version of Santa and his elves?
I open my mouth to ask…and decide I don’t want to know.
Don Malthus’ skull mask tilts.
“Memories are such fragile things,” he remarks. “Even the wisest and the richest must eventually face death…and then the eventual fading of their lives and accomplishments. All is forgotten eventually. All is turned to dust.”
“Maybe, but as long as one person who loves you is still alive, your memory isn’t gone,” I point out. “My parents…my grandma—I’ll never forget them. They’re part of me.”
Maybe I’m getting too upset by this—by the thought of my loved ones fading away because I suddenly feel Lucian’s hand resting lightly on my thigh under the table. His touch is both possessive and reassuring.
He’s reminding me he’s here. Or reminding me I belong to him. Or both, I think.
Strangely enough, it works. I feel the ache in my chest when I think of my lost family easing, just a little. I’m not alone here—Lucian is with me. He cares—at least, I think he does. If not, he’s doing a damn good job of pretending.
Despite my Vampire Don’s reassurance, there’s a lump in my throat from thinking of my grandma and I find I can’t eat any more mushroom pasta. In fact, my appetite is gone and I don’t want anything else at all—I’m done.
But just as I’m deciding this, the servants clear the plates and bring dessert.
Lucian gets the first dessert—a cut crystal dessert dish holding something like blood sorbet—dark ruby and glossy, topped with shaved dark chocolate and a curl of candied orange peel. The scent is sweet and sharp and rich.
For me there is a warm slice of spice cake with a drizzle of creamy caramel and a scoop of vanilla bean cream that melts slowly down the side. It smells like cinnamon and butter and comfort—delicious. Surprisingly, (or maybe not surprisingly because I am a curvy girl after all,) I find that my appetite has miraculously returned.