Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“H ello, I’m Roxanne, can I start you off with a bottle of wine?”
Our server smiles politely, holding her writing pad in front of her tuxedo shirt. Her bow tie sits a little crooked above the generous swell of her bosom, and her teeth have a little red lipstick on them, but she looks like it won’t be a fight to get served by her.
“The house wine is fine,” Fox says. “And we’ll take a sampler appetizer.”
She gives us both another polite smile and assures us she’ll be back shortly.
I peruse the menu, deciding on a chicken dish that looks edible, and set it aside, looking up to find Fox studying me. I cock my head curiously, silently asking what he’s thinking.
He studies me for another few seconds before speaking quietly. “I’m trying to decide why you’ve never been afraid of me and what kind of person pushes a severed head off their lap before demanding money for clothes.”
I snort and roll my eyes as I start typing on my phone, handing it over when I finish. I don’t know if his organization tracks text messages, but if I don’t have to send personal information out into the ether that is radio waves, I won’t. At least, not until I know who’s who and what’s what.
I grew up in a cult that was murdered by the leader when I was ten.
Then one of the boys in one of the homes I was in when I was seventeen decided to kill everyone who ever picked on him.
Obviously I’d never teased him aloud, so I wasn’t one of his targets.
He killed fifteen kids and five adults before offing himself.
So I already had two massacres under my belt when you showed up to the diner.
And, why would I be afraid of you? You’re competent. You’re not going to *accidentally* kill me.
Fox reads my words and hands back my phone. I erase the message while he comes up with a response. “True.”
I huff a laugh that the only part of that he can respond to is my last statement.
Plus, I’ve read that it’s almost impossible to kill your fated mate, so I’m pretty confident I’m safe from you.
I hand that over to him and get the gift of an amused chuff of laughter before he cuts it off, glancing at me as he slides the phone back to me and sips his water. “I don’t think humans have fated mates.”
I fan my hand and roll my wrist, presenting my own face as an example of a human with a fated mate. My teasing smirk draws another huff of laughter from him, but all the joy bouncing between us snuffs out when a man steps up to our table, setting wine glasses on the table and uncorking a bottle.
“Good evening, Mr. Fox. Welcome to Sybillant. If there’s anything I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.
” The man pours Fox’s wine and turns his almost black eyes on me, making me feel cold with the lack of anything remotely human in them.
“And you, Harbinger, welcome. I am Saxon Sybil. Should you ever need my assistance, please do not hesitate to ask. I’ve instructed the depot to add my contact information to your phone. ”
That’s rather presumptuous of the man. I purse my lips in displeasure and cover my wine glass.
Saxon laughs quietly and gives me a respectful nod. “Best to keep your wits about you when you’re involved with Mr. Fox.”
He gives us both a quick bow, sets the bottle on the table, and bids us a good evening before leaving again.
I arch my brow at Fox and send Saxon’s back a side-eye, telling him I don’t trust that guy and that he was creepy as fuck with one expression.
Fox sips his wine to hide his smile and gives me the barest nod, tapping the table.
I push my phone to him and a few moments later, he pushes it back with a message.
The restaurant is safe, but Saxon is a last resort kind of contact. He will take your soul as soon as help you.
That sounds ominous, and honestly a little too on the nose, if you know what I mean.
I mean, the guy’s eyes were totally dead.
I could easily believe in demons after meeting him.
I’ve heard rumors of people who aren’t people making appearances in the places where the homeless shelter, but this is the first time I’ve ever been tempted to believe in demons.
Saxon just inspires that kind of paradigm shift.
While I’m considering this, Roxanne arrives with a platter full of a variety of foods. Like, there’s more food here than I can eat in a day, but that doesn’t stop her from taking out her writing pad as soon as the appetizer is set up and asking if we’ve decided on our entrees.
Fox orders a steak and then I have to decide if I want to lug a bunch of leftovers around or if I’m content with the appetizer.
Greed wins out, so I point to the chicken on the menu and then to the side dishes that look good, and Roxanne disappears with our menus and an assurance she will have our food out as soon as possible.
I watch Fox sip his wine, enjoying the bob of his Adam’s apple and the way the dark scruff on his face makes him look like more of a hobo than I am.
No, he doesn’t get to look distinguished with his scruff; he looks like he could use a shave and a haircut.
Like I said, he’s not exactly handsome, more like he’s an average joe kind of guy and with the day-old scruff he’s definitely looking haggard.
It doesn’t help that he’s wearing a bloodstained T-shirt and workout pants.
“Restrictive clothing isn’t an option for me,” he tells me quietly.
Plus, I know what he spent on my suits; he would be poorer than me in just a few days if he had to buy a new suit every time he worked.
I tap out a few sentences into my phone and slide it to him.
The hobo look isn’t sexy, but your confidence is. I’d do you. I’d do you for the rest of our lives.
When he looks up, I wag my brows suggestively and he rewards my bad behavior with another huff of laughter. He types his response under mine and slides the phone back.
Don’t let anyone know you’re both sassy and crazy. Harbingers have a reputation to uphold.
I cock my head at him, curious what my reputation is supposed to be.
He gives me the barest hint of a mysterious smile and sips his wine, deciding to keep me in the dark because there’s no way he misunderstood my nonverbal query.
What’s life without a little mystery? I'll find out eventually.
Our server delivers our food, and we eat without filling the time with conversation. I enjoy my food, and his appears to be adequate. He drinks the entire bottle of wine and pays with his subdermal chip, then we’re back out on the street and darkness has fallen.
“First job is in a church. All you have to do is go in and walk to the front and sit in the first pew. That is the entirety of your job. We will leave together,” he says, hailing a cab.
He pushes me into it, but doesn’t get in with me, giving the cabbie the address before shutting me in without so much as a good luck.
Oh well, when you decide to fall in love with a stoic man, you can’t expect him to be anything other than stoic. As the cab pulls back into traffic, I give him an affectionate smile through the window— I’m not a stoic man, so I don’t have to pretend I don’t like him.
The drive to the church takes an hour—I could have gotten there on foot faster—but when I pull out cash to pay, the cabbie waves it away.
“Harbingers ride for free,” he says by way of explanation, smiling a crooked smile and peering at me through startling emerald eyes.
He’s scruffy but not unkempt like Fox, handsome, and looks friendly, though there’s something about him that makes me feel a bit like prey.
I trust my gut, accepting that it’s warning me about him but not making me think I’m actually a target.
It’s odd that I don’t have to pay for the ride, but since I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I get out and walk into the church with my back straight and head held high.
I might not be a rich wanker, but I sure can act like it when I’m wearing the right clothes.
Inside, the candles burn on an altar across from the door, and the place has that burned-wax-and-cold-stone smell of old cathedral churches.
A surprising number of people litter the pews while a priest stands at the pulpit, though he doesn’t seem to be conducting a service.
It doesn’t much matter anyway, I have one job to do, so I walk with confidence to the front of the church, never faltering even when every head turns as I pass.
The very front pew is actually behind the pulpit and to the left, so I walk up the steps past the priest and turn, sitting to face the sanctuary at the very front of the church.
Two elderly men and a middle-aged woman exit the church as the rest of the people stand up, drawing their guns. No one points a weapon at me, but the priest turns to face me.
“May I ask for whom the bell tolls?” He looks…concerned.
Since I don’t know and I couldn’t tell him if I did, I stare impassively for long enough to make him shift uncomfortably, and then I turn my eyes back to the people awaiting death. I mean, I assume Fox is going to kill anyone who threatens him.
The priest shuffles a bit. “Most Harbingers announce the subject of the contract before the arrival of the Reaper.”
I flick my gaze to him, but otherwise ignore him. I mean, I’m not going to tell him I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m not sure I want him to know I’m mute either. Plus, it’s kind of fun watching him squirm.
Ten minutes later, Fox slams into the church, wielding a sword. This is clearly a gun fight, and my man brought a fucking sword. He also brought all his guns, but c’mon, a sword!