Melissa Marr - Ink Exchange

Gabriel smiled then, happily anticipating a spot of trouble with the Summer Court guards. Their presence meant that neither Winter nor Summer Court would harm the girl, and no solitary fey would be foolish enough to try to engage in any sport with a mortal who was under such careful watch. Of course, it also meant that Irial would have the great fun of stealing her away without their noticing before it was too late.

"Just the two of you?" the hostess, a rather vapid mortal with a perky smile, asked.

A quick glance at the chart on the hostess station showed him which tables were in his mortal's section. Irial motioned to a table in the far corner, a darkened section fit for romantic dinners or stolen trysts. "We'll take that table in back. The one by the ficus."

After the hostess led them to the table in question, Irial waited until she— Leslie— walked up, her hips swaying slightly, her expression friendly and warm. Such a look would work well if he were the mortal he appeared to be. As it was, the shadows that danced around her and the smoke-thin tendrils that snaked from her skin to his— visible only to dark fey— were what made his breath catch.

"Hi, I'm Leslie. I'll be your server tonight," she said as she placed a basket of fresh bread on the table. Then she launched into specials and other nonsense he didn't quite hear. She had too-thin lips for his taste, darkened only slightly with something pink and girlish. Not suitable for my mortal at all. But the darkness that clung so poignantly to her skin was quite fit for his court. He studied her, reading her feelings now that they were linked even this slightly. When he'd met her she'd been tainted, but now she positively crawled with shadows. Someone had hurt her, and badly, since he'd first seen her.

Anger that someone had touched what was his vied with awareness. What they had done—and how ably she resisted the shadows—these were what made her ready to be his. Had they not wounded her, she'd be inaccessible to him. Had she not resisted the darkness so successfully, she'd not be strong enough to handle what he was about to do to her. She'd been damaged, but not irreparably. Fragmented and strong, the perfect mix for him.

But he'd still kill them for touching her.

Silent now, obviously done with her lists and recommendations, she stood and stared expectantly at him. Aside from a quick glance at Gabriel, her attention was riveted on Irial. It pleased him more than he'd expected, seeing the mortal look at him attentively. He liked her hunger. "Leslie, can you do me a favor?"

"Sir?" She smiled again but looked hesitant as she did so. Her fear spiked, showing in a slight shifting of shadows that made his heart race.

"I'm not feeling very decisive" — he shot a glare at Gabriel, whose muffled laugh turned into a loud cough— "in terms of the menu here. Could you order for me?"

She frowned and looked back at the hostess, who was now watching them carefully. "If you're a regular, I'm sorry, but I don't remember—"

"No. I'm not." He ran a finger down her wrist, violating mortal etiquette, but unable to resist. She was his. It wasn't official yet, but that didn't matter. He smiled at her, letting his glamour drop for a fraction of a moment, showing her his true face—testing her, seeking fear or longing—and added, "Just order whatever you think we'd like. Surprise me. I enjoy a good surprise."

Her waitress façade slipped a little; her heartbeat fluttered. And he felt it, the brief surge of panic. He couldn't taste it, not yet, not truly, but almost—like a pungent aroma wafting from a kitchen, teasing hints of flavors he couldn't swallow.

He opened the black-lacquered cigarette case he favored of late and drew out a cigarette, watching her try to make sense of him. "Can you do that, Leslie? Take care of me?"

She nodded, slowly. "Do you have any allergies or—"

"Not to anything on your menu. Neither of us does." He tapped his cigarette on the table, packing it, watching her until she looked away. She glanced at Gabriel. "Order for you too?"

Gabriel shrugged as Irial said, "Yes, for both of us."

"Are you sure?" She watched him intently, and Irial suspected that she was already feeling something of the changes that would soon roll over her. Her eyes had dilated ever so slightly when her fears rose and faded. Later tonight, when she thought of him, she'd think he was just an odd man, memorable for that alone. It would be a while until her mind would let her process the extent of her changing body. Mortals had so many mental defenses to make sense of the things that violated their preconceptions and rules. At times those defenses were quite useful to him.

He lit his cigarette, stalling just to watch her squirm a touch more. He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, once more being completely inappropriate for the guise he wore and for the setting. "I think you'll bring me exactly what I need."

Terror surged, tangling around an unmistakable blaze of desire and a bit of anger. Her smile didn't waver, though.

"I'll put your order in, then," she said as she took a step backward, pulling her hand free of his grip.

He took a drag on his cigarette as he watched her walk away. The dark smoky line between them stretched and wound through the room like a path he could follow.

Soon.

At the doorway, she looked back at him, and he could almost taste her terror as it peaked.

He licked his lips.

Very soon.

Leslie slipped into the kitchen, leaned on the wall, and tried not to fall to pieces. Her hands shook. Someone else needed to handle the odd guest; she felt frightened by his attention, his too-intense stare, his words.

"You okay, ma belle? the pastry chef, Etienne, asked. He was a wiry man with a temper that flared to life over the oddest things, but he was just as irrationally kind. Tonight, kind appeared to be the mood of choice, or at least this hour it was.

"Sure." She pasted a smile back on her face, but it was less than convincing.

"Sick? Hungry? Faint?" Etienne prompted.

"I'm fine, just a demanding guest, too touchy, too everything. He wants … Maybe you could figure out what to order—" She stopped, feeling inexplicably angry at herself for thinking, even for that brief second, of having someone else order his food. No. That wouldn't work. Her anger and fear receded. She straightened her shoulders and rattled off a list of her favorite foods, complete with the marquise au chocolat.

"That's not on the dessert menu tonight," one of the prep cooks objected.

Etienne winked. "For Leslie it is. I have emergency dessert for special reasons."

Leslie felt relieved, irrationally so, that Etienne's rum-soaked chocolate decadence was available. It wasn't as if the customer had asked for it, but she wanted to give it to him, wanted to please him. "You're the best."

"Oui, I know." Etienne shrugged as if it were nothing, but his smile belied the expression. "You should tell Robert this. Often. He forgets how lucky he is that I stay here."

Leslie laughed, relaxing a bit under Etienne's irresistible charm. It was no secret that the owner, Robert, would do almost anything to please Etienne, a fact that Etienne pretended not to notice.

"The order for table six is up," another voice called out, and Leslie resumed her work, smile sliding back into place as she lifted the steaming dishes.

As the shift wore on, Leslie caught herself looking at the two odd guests often enough that she had a difficult time concentrating on her other tables.

Tips will be low if this keeps up.

It wasn't like touchy guests were unheard of. Guys seemed to think that because she waited tables she'd be easily swayed by a little charm and affluence. She smiled and flirted a bit with male diners; she smiled and listened a few minutes longer with older guests; and she smiled and paid attention to the families with children. It was simply how it went at Verlaine's. Robert liked the waitstaff to treat the guests personably. Of course, that ended at the threshold of the restaurant. She didn't date anyone she met on duty; she wouldn't even give her number.