Chapter Seven
Julian had spent fifteen minutes appreciating the proper use of “collect” instead of “pick up,” then responded, Yes. Where are we going?
Somewhere you will enjoy.
Not helpful, but Julian appreciated that Cillian was trying to be romantic rather than pragmatic. He’d dressed in dark jeans, and a forest-green sweater Patricia had once said made him look “approachable, for once,” which Julian had interpreted as a compliment despite her tone suggesting otherwise.
The knock came again. Two measured raps.
Julian opened the door.
Cillian stood in the hallway, wearing one of his identical dark suits, a charcoal one with a barely there pinstripe.
His hair was pushed back from his face, and his eyes - those impossible pools of shifting darkness - fixed on Julian with an intensity that sent Julian’s heart rate into the moderately elevated zone.
“You look...” Cillian paused. “That’s inconvenient. I meant to compliment you on your looks, but I don’t have adequate vocabulary.”
“You look like you’re attending a funeral for someone you personally killed,” Julian said. “But in a good way.”
Cillian’s mouth curved. “Thank you.”
“Where are we going?”
“Marconi’s. It’s…”
“Fourteen blocks northeast. They specialize in Italian fusion. They source their pasta from a family operation in Emilia-Romagna, and their wine list has sixty-three varieties, twelve of which are from vineyards that technically don’t export to the United States.
” Julian collected his jacket and keys. “That’s a good choice.
I’ve wanted to try it, but the reservation wait list is approximately six weeks. ”
“I called to make a booking yesterday.”
“And they gave you a table?”
“Eventually.”
Julian locked his door and started down the hallway. Cillian fell into step beside him, close enough that Julian could feel the temperature differential between Cillian’s unnaturally cool presence and the heated building air. “Did you threaten them to get a table?”
“No. I merely suggested that accommodating my request would be...preferable.”
“I think you’ll find that’s threatening.”
“I didn’t specify consequences.”
“Implying consequences is still threatening, Cillian.”
“Would you have preferred I wait six weeks?”
Julian thought about it. “No. I’m still suspended, and I’m not sure how much longer that will last. I’ve already organized my entire apartment twice. I need external stimulation before I start alphabetizing Gerald’s soil composition for him.”
They reached the street. Cillian’s hand hovered near Julian’s lower back - not touching, but close enough that Julian felt the phantom pressure of wanting. “Your succulent can’t read.”
“That’s not relevant to organizational satisfaction.”
A tendril of shadow curled around Julian’s wrist, cool and seeking contact.
Julian didn’t pull away. He was getting used to the shadows who investigated him along with his space.
They touched his books, his coffee mugs, even the pen he’d been chewing during research.
It was as if they were cataloging everything about him.
“They missed you today,” Julian said.
Cillian’s eyes flickered. “Did they misbehave?”
“They rearranged my bookshelf by emotional resonance instead of subject matter. I found a quantum physics textbook next to a poetry collection about grief.”
“That’s...” Cillian’s shadows rippled with what Julian had learned to identify as embarrassment. “They’re expressing themselves.”
“I’m not complaining. It’s an interesting organizational system. Useless for research purposes, but interesting.”
They walked through the warehouse district where Julian had first encountered Cillian. The alley was empty now, with no trace left of Cillian’s victim or the violence Julian had witnessed. Someone had pressure-washed the pavement.
“You cleaned up,” Julian observed.
“The morning after our first meeting. I didn’t want you walking past evidence.”
“That’s thoughtful.”
“You advised me on where to stash the body, but you never said anything about residual trace evidence. I worried that it would bother you if you saw evidence of that later.”
Julian stopped walking. Cillian stopped immediately beside him, shadows coiling in what Julian had learned to recognize as concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m recalibrating my earlier impressions.”
“Recalibrating what?”
“My understanding of courtship behavior. You committed a murder, meticulously cleaned up the scene, then spent three days watching me through my window to make sure I was safe. That’s...” Julian searched for the right word. “Extremely romantic by any reasonable metric. I’m sure it is.”
Cillian moved closer, close enough that the shadows wrapped around both of them now, a cocoon of protective darkness. “You think murder is romantic.”
“I think protecting someone you care about from consequences is romantic. The murder was irrelevant to all of this. That was just a practical removal of a societal problem.”
“Julian.” Cillian’s voice dropped to something that resonated in Julian’s chest. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m really not. I’m difficult and pedantic, and people generally find me exhausting.”
“Then they’re fools who don’t deserve your precision.” Cillian’s hand finally made contact - his fingers brushing Julian’s jaw with so much care. “I find you extraordinary.”
Julian’s pulse kicked up into the definitely elevated zone. “We should continue walking, or we’ll be late for your threatened reservation.”
“As you wish.” Cillian’s smile did include a lot of teeth, but it was still heartwarming to see. At least Julian assumed that was what was impacting his heart rate. It could’ve been the being himself.
/~/~/~/~/
Marconi’s was exactly as advertised. There was exposed brick, soft lighting, and the tables spaced far enough apart for private conversation. The hostess took one look at Cillian, and her professional smile went rigid.
“Reservation for two under... Cillian.”
“Yes. This way, please.”
She led them to a corner table with concerning speed considering the height of her heels, her hand shaking slightly as she placed the menus down. Julian noticed she didn’t look directly at Cillian, her gaze skittering away whenever it approached his face.
“Your server will be right with you,” she managed to say before she fled.
“She’s terrified of you,” Julian said, opening his menu.
“Most humans are.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“It’s efficient. Fear creates compliance and distance.” Cillian hadn’t touched his menu. “But you’re not afraid.”
“Should I be?”
“Probably.”
Julian scanned the pasta options, noting the agnolotti with brown butter and sage had a grammatically incorrect description.
“You’re a confirmed killer, you’ve stalked me extensively, you exist as a manifestation of cosmic darkness, and your shadows rearrange my apartment while I sleep.
If I were going to be afraid, I would have started the first time I saw you. ”
“That’s sound reasoning.”
“I specialize in sound reasoning.”
A server approached. He was young and nervous, and determinedly not looking at Cillian’s face. “Welcome to Marconi’s. Can I start you with drinks?”
“Red wine, please,” Julian said. “Whatever pairs with the agnolotti.”
“Excellent choice. And for you, sir?”
Cillian’s shadows rippled. “Nothing.”
“Are you sure? We have an extensive…”
“He doesn’t eat,” Julian interjected. “He’s on a very specific diet.”
The server’s confusion was palpable. “We can accommodate most dietary restrictions…”
“Not this one.” Julian closed his menu. “I’ll have the agnolotti, the roasted beet salad, and if you could fix the description on page three of the menu where it should say ‘complemented’ instead of ‘complimented,’ I’d appreciate it.
The dishes complement each other. They’re not giving each other praise. ”
The server stared.
Cillian’s expression went soft with something that looked like adoration.
“I’ll... I’ll tell the kitchen,” the server managed.
When he disappeared, Julian looked up to find Cillian watching him with that unblinking intensity. “What?”
“You corrected the menu.”
“It was wrong.”
“Most people wouldn’t notice.”
“Most people don’t have brains that work like mine does.” Julian straightened his silverware. “Does it bother you that I do that?”
“Bother me?” Cillian leaned forward. His shadows crept across the table, wrapping around Julian’s water glass. “Julian, watching you correct that server was the most attractive thing I’ve witnessed in four thousand years.”
“You have very specific taste.”
“I have excellent taste.”
The server returned with the wine, poured it with shaking hands, and vanished again.
Julian sipped. “This is a 2018 Barolo. A good choice.”
“I can’t taste it.”
“Right. The not eating thing.” Julian studied Cillian’s face. “What do you actually consume? You said corruption, but what does that mean physiologically?”
“Technically, I can eat human food, I just don’t enjoy it, so I stopped bothering. I consume the essence of decay in a person. A decay caused by their cruelty, violence, or predatory intent. I drain it from them, which typically drains their life as well.”
“So, you’re fundamentally a filter for human evil.”
“That’s a generous interpretation.”
“I would say it’s an accurate interpretation.” Julian took another sip. “You’re maintaining cosmic balance by removing concentrated corruption. That’s practically a public service.”
Cillian’s shadows surged toward Julian again, wrapping around his forearm, his wrist, threading between his fingers. “You truly see it that way.”
“How else would I see it? You’re not killing indiscriminately. You’re targeting predators and abusers. That’s just...ethical pest control.”
“Julian.”
“What?”
“I’m trying very hard to behave appropriately in public, but if you continue describing murder as pest control in that earnest tone, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
Heat curled low in Julian’s stomach. “What actions specifically?”