Chapter Six
SIX
Eleonore woke all at once, as was usual for her. Whether the practice was due to years of paranoia or her vampire heritage—full-bred vampires didn’t wake so much as turn on, like plugging in an electric lamp—she couldn’t say. She was on her feet in an instant, scanning the room for threats.
Green walls, brown furniture, a window with drawn curtains that let a sliver of daylight through. The light was the golden hue of late afternoon where it slanted across the floor.
No annoyingly attractive werewolf in sight.
She frowned at the blanket that had slid from her shoulders to pool on the floor. Where had that come from? She remembered drinking blood, then a sudden, overwhelming wave of tiredness, but no blanket. Warily, she picked it up, then brought it to her nose to sniff.
Hot chocolate, campfire smoke, a hint of wildflowers. A comforting, warm sort of smell, almost as if it had been designed to put the smeller at ease—although since she’d tasted the echo of it in the werewolf’s aroused blood, that wasn’t the only thing Eleonore felt sniffing it. Her lower belly tightened, and she breathed more deeply. This was Ben’s natural scent, condensed in the fabric as if he had curled up under this blanket many times before.
Why had Ben placed the blanket on her? It wasn’t as if she had been cold. Drinking blood always left a pleasant flush across her skin, and his house was cool but comfortable.
Perhaps he had wrapped her in the blanket to inhibit her movements in case of an attack. It was a reasonable strategy—she’d employed it with lovers in the past. There was nothing quite like an early morning beheading attempt to put a damper on an assignation.
But the werewolf wasn’t her lover, and she couldn’t hurt him anyway, due to the parameters of the curse. So had he just wanted to make sure she was…comfortable?
Eleonore rubbed her chest over where her heart beat, troubled by the thought. It was a mortal heart, a succubus’s heart. It tapped her time on Earth away beat by beat—or at least it would have, had she not been kept in suspended animation for the vast majority of her long, long life. She’d been chained by the Witch in the Woods at the age of thirty. She hadn’t kept track of how much she’d aged during the times she’d been allowed out of her prison, but it couldn’t have been more than five years, cumulatively.
A noise caught her attention, and she turned to see Ben poking his head around the corner. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said, running a hand through his thick brown hair.
Feeling oddly flustered, Eleonore gestured at herself. “Obviously.”
He winced, and Eleonore felt a prick of guilt at having snapped at him for the crime of nothing more heinous than putting a blanket on her while she was asleep.
“It is a nice blanket,” she said in an effort at atonement, holding it out to show him.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said. “It’s my favorite.”
They eyed each other, two wary creatures calculating potential danger.
“Do you want dinner?” Ben asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Not blood—or I guess blood if you need more—but…food?”
Eleonore consulted her body. She’d eaten the sandwich for lunch and then a few bags of blood, so she wasn’t starving, but yes, there was a slight hollowness in her stomach that indicated a meal would be welcome in the future. “I could eat in an hour or two,” she said cautiously.
“I was thinking…” Ben gestured at the door. “Outside somewhere? Assuming you don’t mind that it’s still bright.”
Outside was promising. Outside meant getting to examine her surroundings again, this time in the werewolf’s company so she could examine his response to the environment as well. The more information she collected about her circumstances, the better she’d be able to hopefully shape the future to her will—as much as she was able to while bound by the curse.
“I don’t mind sun,” she said. The perks of being only half vampire. “Outside would be nice.”
Ben smiled then, and it was nearly as startling as—well, everything else that had happened that day. He looked pleased and shy as he scratched his cheek, fingernails rasping lightly over his beard. Her not-fully-sated succubus hunger whispered that it would be nice to run her own fingernails through that beard before getting her mouth on his smile, but she ignored it. “I need a few minutes to get ready,” he said, “but then let’s go introduce you to Glimmer Falls.”
Ben took her to a restaurant in the downtown area, a few blocks away from where she’d tailed him earlier. He told her the history of the town as he drove, and Eleonore absorbed the information eagerly.
Glimmer Falls had been founded in 1842 by Casper Cunnington and Galahad Spark, two wizards from prominent families who had been drawn to the area for the magic woven into the soil. There was a vast grid of ley lines beneath the town and extending into the forest and hills beyond, and as a result, supernatural creatures of all kinds congregated here.
Eleonore couldn’t sense the magic, but she did see a wide variety of people walking, flying, or cantering around. Centaurs, griffins, naiads, witches, dryads…Add to that a collection of nonmagical humans and an array of animals both mystical and not, and the town thrummed with life.
The restaurant, Brittany’s, had a large outdoor terrace, and when Ben asked if she’d prefer to sit inside or outside, Eleonore tipped her face up to the sunshine and decided on a resolute outside . It was late enough in the day that hopefully her pale skin wouldn’t sunburn. And even if it did, who cared? She’d been stuck in that plastic insult of a crystal for far too long, and even on occasions when the witch had let her out over the fifty or so years since her mission in 1969, they’d spent the time watching television or engaged in other indoor activities like bridge, poetry reading, or an odd game called Jenga.
She shifted in her wrought iron chair, looking around curiously. The restaurant was decorated in shades of blue with wooden floorboards, and gauzy white draperies fluttered overhead, creating a makeshift roof. The theme appeared to be oceanic, with art depicting mermaids and sirens and pieces of beach glass embedded in the walls. Lights were strung overhead amid the fabric, twinkling like golden stars.
The clientele leaned toward the younger side, although Eleonore being over six hundred years old in the body of a roughly thirty-five-year-old meant she couldn’t make such assumptions. They chattered and laughed, drinking glasses of wine or strangely colored liquids that gleamed in the late afternoon light.
A serving wench stopped at the table to deliver menus and take drink orders. Ben ordered the house red wine, and Eleonore requested a tankard of ale.
She could not have guessed the complications that would come from such a simple request. What sort of ale? Light or dark? Malty? Hoppy? There was a fresh-hopped brew from the next town over as well as a hazy IPA, a cold IPA, a wheat beer, a stout, an ESB, a sour…
It was enough to make a vampire succubus want to flip over the table and launch into a rant about the “good old days” when things weren’t so complicated and there was only one ale on tap, but the good old days had also involved more body odor and a distressing lack of indoor plumbing, so she bit down her protests and chose a beer at random.
“You like IPAs?” Ben asked as the wench hurried away.
“We’ll find out,” Eleonore muttered.
She hadn’t dined in a large venue like this since long ago, when she’d taken her suppers in the great hall with her parents and her father’s vassals. The scene was easy to imagine: torchlight flickering against stone, the scent of roasting meat for the mortals and blood for the vampires, smoke heavy on the air, voices raised in raucous celebration of their latest triumph in battle. If Eleonore had called for ale, her mother would have grimaced and suggested she choose wine instead, and her father would have complained that he didn’t see the point of drinking anything that didn’t have a heartbeat. Her parents would have gotten into a playful argument over it, the vampire lord with his beloved succubus bride, and Eleonore would have watched as she had many times before, a smile on her lips as she took advantage of their distraction to feed morsels of her dinner to the hounds pacing the rush-strewn floor.
It was vivid enough to bring up an old, familiar ache in her breast, though the sting had grown less acute with time. Eleonore had raged and grieved in those early centuries, which had been lived in bursts of brief violence between long sleeps, but her grief had gradually been worn down like a rock beneath a waterfall, its contours no longer sharp enough to cut.
Her hatred for the witch who had snatched her from her family, though, would never fade.
The ale arrived in a cold glass, looking paler than she’d expected. Eleonore raised it to her lips and took a sip—then promptly spat it back out.
“Mon Dieu,” she said, staring at the drink in horror. “That’s disgusting.”
“What’s wrong?” Ben asked, head popping up from where he’d been studying the menu. His spectacles were slightly crooked, and he nudged them back into place.
“It tastes like shit.”
His thick eyebrows rose. “May I?” he asked, gesturing at the pint.
“If you wish to suffer, don’t let me stop you.”
He sipped, then set it down, looking confused. “It tastes fine to me.”
Was the werewolf a masochist? Filing the possibility away in her mental encyclopedia entry, Eleonore mustered her courage and sipped again, this time managing to swallow despite her urge to spew the horrid brew all over the table. It was bitter, with an aftertaste that made her think of evergreen forests. “This cannot be ale,” she said. “It’s like being punched in the teeth by a pine tree.”
Ben chuckled, a pleasing rumble rising from that broad chest. “Those are the hops.”
He proceeded to explain IPAs and the craft beer scene to her, as well as some particulars of the brewing process. Eleonore listened, intrigued by his casual expertise. He’d changed into dress pants and a blue shirt, as well as a knitted one-piece vest that strained to contain his barrel chest. Quite restrained-looking, except he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to reveal muscled forearms covered with hair.
“Very informative,” Eleonore said, pulling her gaze away from those impressive forearms. It was important to assess the physical capabilities of one’s enemies but equally important to stay on the correct side of the assessing/leering line. “Though I fail to see why modern people want to drink such a foul concoction.”
He laughed again. “It grows on you.” He raised his glass. “Though I still prefer wine.”
Eleonore stared at the IPA, her newest enemy, calculating how many sips she’d need to finish it. Too many, but she was no coward and refused to admit defeat to a pint glass, so she raised the beer again. “Santé,” she said, then drank deeply, repressing a shudder.
He echoed the toast and sipped his red wine. “Is that French?”
“Yes.” “Santé” was the informal version of “à votre santé”—to your health. She’d said it out of habit, not because she actually wished him good health, but oh well.
“How many languages do you speak?”
Eleonore squinted, considering. “Six. Though French and English are my best.”
He raised his brows, looking impressed. “Wow.”
“Languages are a vampire strength,” she said. “We learn them quickly and easily adapt to new accents and terminology.” The only reason she didn’t know more than six was because she’d been spending most of her conscious time with the English-speaking witch. The witch hadn’t been the most modern of speakers, being effectively immortal so long as she stole mortal lives, but if Eleonore spent sustained time around this century’s people, she’d begin to sound like them instead.
“Interesting,” Ben said. “Why?”
“Because we’re a predator species,” Eleonore explained. “It’s the same reason our bites feel good. I’m not immortal—technically, anyway—but purebred vampires are, so they need to constantly blend into new times and places. Knowing the local language makes potential prey more comfortable.”
His eye twitched. “You think about other people as potential prey?”
“Only our enemies or the ones who smell nice.” Like him. She nodded toward his glass. “How is your wine?”
He sipped, then made a rueful face. “I would say it’s excellent, but that would be a lie.”
“And you don’t wish to lie?”
“I try not to as a general principle, though we all have our moments of weakness.”
“Interesting,” she said, parroting him. She sipped the devil IPA again, eyeing him. The werewolf was a puzzle she hadn’t yet figured out the technique of solving.
He focused his attention on redoing the crisp fold of one of his rolled-up cuffs. Her vision narrowed in on his exposed forearm and the brown hair topping those eye-catching muscles. A vein flickered under the skin, and she licked one fang, imagining how his muscles would flex as she pierced him. Wondering what his noises of pleasure would sound like.
“Why is that interesting?” Ben asked, seemingly oblivious to her hungry regard.
She dragged her attention away from his muscles again. If someone on this patio would just masturbate to completion, that would be most helpful—surely then she would be sated enough to ignore his carnal appeal. “It’s rare to hear lying described as a weakness,” she said. “Most people I’ve known considered it a skill. Or a good strategy to disconcert your enemies.”
“Do you think it’s a skill?” he asked, gaze flicking up to hers.
The blunt question took her aback. She considered briefly, then gave an honest answer. “Yes, though I’d rather tell someone when I’m planning on ripping their throat out and deal with the issue directly than lure them in with falsehoods.”
His chuckle was strained. “You sure talk a lot about ripping out throats and eating livers.”
Eleonore leaned back in her chair, holding the beer close. Each sip was easier than the last, and now that she’d gotten over the shock of the flavor, she could appreciate that it tasted significantly more alcoholic than the ale of her youth. “It’s been my main occupation for centuries,” she said. “Murder, that is. I can’t say I’ve actually eaten anyone’s liver.”
“Well that’s a comfort,” Ben said. “At least one of my organs is safe from danger.”
She cocked a brow and glanced meaningfully toward his lap, thinking about which organ was in most danger at the moment.
Apparently realizing what he’d said, Ben looked mortified. “Internal organs, I mean.” He grimaced. “You know what? Never mind.”
Eleonore smiled despite herself. “So if the wine is bad, why don’t you order a nicer one?” she asked, taking mercy on him.
Ben seemed relieved to abandon the topic of his manly organ. “Habit, I suppose.” He raised the glass to the light, turning the stem to study the shifting liquid. “I started my own business a decade ago, and it was rough going for years. Even though we’re in the black now, it’s hard to break the habit of buying the cheapest thing on the menu. It took me ages to even be willing to buy alcohol with dinner.”
“In the black?” she asked, unfamiliar with the phrase.
“Profitable. In the red would be the opposite.”
Eleonore filed that away. “What is your business?”
His shoulders went back with obvious pride. “I own a plant nursery and garden shop.”
That was unexpected. She considered the possibility he was joking, but his face had lit up while saying the words, and he had an aura of sincerity. A bundle of contradictions, this werewolf. His body nearly burst the seams of his clothing, but he put on a great show of harmlessness.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
Ben told her about his lifelong love of gardening, his first job in a plant nursery as a teenager, and how he’d decided to open a shop in his hometown. He described the plants he grew, his favorite customers, and his employees—a naiad and a witch, both equally passionate about nature. He was currently expanding the store into the neighboring space and opening a coffee shop with the goal of eventually turning Ben’s Plant Emporium into a neighborhood landmark and gathering space.
Eleonore listened, gathering facts and impressions to add to her mental picture of Ben. He was passionate about his business; any reticence or bashfulness melted away while he was describing it. His large hands danced lightly in the air, illustrating the layout, and his eyes were bright with excitement.
He loved the shop, that much was clear, which meant he absolutely should not have told Eleonore about it. The problem with loving things was how easily love could be turned into a weapon. Did he have no sense of self-preservation?
It was potential ammunition, though, so she collected every detail uttered in his rumbling voice. She couldn’t harm him physically so long as the binding spell was in place, but part of his heart was in that building, and she could do severe damage to it should he earn her vengeance.
Which he would, most likely. No matter how earnest he seemed now, he had total control over Eleonore’s existence. It would be a rare person to resist using that sort of power.
Gods, she was tired. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. As she looked at Ben’s smile, his strong hands, she felt an ache in her chest. What would it take to find the one person whose expressions she could trust? The one person who would never harm her? Her parents’ bond should have been impossible—a mortal and an immortal, falling in love across species lines—but it hadn’t been. They had treated each other’s hearts gently.
Eleonore had no trouble acquiring sex, but love was a rarer beast. Would she ever be able to look at a person and think: I am safe with you ?
Not in this life, at least not as she’d known it thus far.
Ben’s tale concluded when the serving wench arrived again to take their food orders. Ben apologized and asked her to return once they’d had a chance to study the menu. “I got too excited talking,” he said with a self-deprecating smile, and the wench laughed and twirled a lock of hair around her finger.
Eleonore narrowed her eyes at the woman’s blatant act of flirtation. She might take more after her father, but she was her mother’s child as well, and she recognized an adversary.
Not that she wanted to genuinely flirt with Ben, of course. One didn’t drool over one’s jailer, no matter how handsome or nice-smelling—at least not unless one was hungry. But she wanted his attention for strategic purposes. Thankfully, Eleonore’s narrow-eyed glare was enough to make the wench gulp and scurry away, no baring of fangs required.
Pleased with that victory, Eleonore studied the menu. She didn’t recognize half the things on it, but she did understand the concept of a steak and how to eat one, although the price was alarming. She really needed to educate herself about modern currency values. She looked around and saw other patrons using their PADDs—or phones, if Ben was to be believed—at the table, fingers darting over the screens. Perhaps she could steal one and inquire about the cost of beef.
“This is a pretty place,” she said, facing Ben again.
Had his gaze been on her mouth? “It’s new,” he said, eyes flitting back to hers. “I came here with my sister a month ago for the grand opening.”
“You have a sister?” Another piece of information to file away.
He nodded. “Gigi. She’s a menace.”
He said it fondly, though, so Eleonore suspected he had a different idea of what constituted a menace than she did. “Older or younger?”
“Younger. She’s thirty-three, and I’m—” He paused, forehead wrinkling. “Thirty-eight.”
“You had to think about it?”
He tugged at his collar, looking embarrassed. “Somewhere in my early thirties it all started running together.”
Eleonore laughed before she thought better of it. It was a harsh laugh, propelled by bitterness. “I wonder when my years started running together.”
Ben winced, but to his credit, he laced his fingers on the table and leaned in, fixing her with a direct look rather than retreating from the lash of her tongue. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Did she? She wasn’t sure. But no one had ever asked before either. And something in his brown eyes made her want to share.
“The Witch in the Woods found me when I was thirty years of age,” she said. She remembered the night clearly—cold and brutal, with the stars laid out like a shining belt across the sky. Blood flushing her skin, the thrill of battle filling her heart as she sprinted through the woods in pursuit of her prey. “We were battling the vampire clan that assassinated my father.”
He made a soft noise. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Eleonore shrugged one shoulder, ill at ease. Then she remembered the ale near her hand and took a gulp instead. The pine tree burn fit well with the memory of that snow-clad forest. “It was a long time ago. The vampire clans were always at war then. Maybe they still are today; I don’t know.”
“I don’t think so, but we don’t hear a lot about vampires these days,” Ben said. “They keep their affairs private.”
Nothing new in that. “Vampires are very territorial. When I was young, there was a lot of conflict over access to mines or trade routes. It wasn’t unusual to have a parent or friend die.” Her father had even prepared her for it, telling her bedtime stories of vampires who had died fighting and instructing her in the best ways to sever an enemy’s head—for that was the only way to kill an immortal. When her father had been killed, his entire clan—including her succubus mother, who normally stayed safe in the keep during wartime—had honored him by taking up arms. “We retaliated, of course. That night, my steel sang in the winter air. I took head after head in my father’s name. I just didn’t know a witch was watching.”
The witch had approached during a lull in battle, looking like a death goddess in her dark cloak. She’d complimented Eleonore’s ferocity, then offered her what she wanted most: vengeance. All Eleonore had to do was cut her palm to mirror the witch’s self-induced injury, clasp hands while the witch chanted, and wait for the power the spell would give her.
Eleonore had been young and foolish then, influenced by tales of bloodthirsty goddesses and warriors raised to places of honor after falling in glorious battle. Impulsive at the best of times, she became even more reckless while drunk on bloodlust and adrenaline, and she hadn’t questioned what the witch would gain in exchange. She’d also failed to ask whose vengeance the spell would facilitate.
Vengeance had indeed been delivered at the tip of Eleonore’s sword—but it was the witch’s enemies who had died. Eleonore had become naught but an instrument to be used.
The serving wench appeared abruptly, making Eleonore flinch and reach for the knife concealed in her boot, since Ben had indicated earlier that thigh holsters might not be welcome in public. She stopped herself just before drawing the blade.
“Are you ready to order?” the wench chirped cheerfully. “Or can I get you started with some appetizers?”
“We’re ready to order, but an appetizer might be nice, too. Maybe some garlic bread?” Then Ben looked at Eleonore with a grimace. “Shoot, can you eat that? I should have asked first.”
It took her a moment to realize his concern, and she let out a soft breath of amusement. “Yes, I can eat garlic. Just as werewolves aren’t actually allergic to silver.”
The myth that garlic repelled vampires was a funny one. Purebred or turned vampires drank only blood, so they wouldn’t be able to eat garlic anyway. The worst it could do was deliver an unpleasant stench in a vampire’s general vicinity or a spice to the blood, and even that depended on personal preference. Some vampires liked the taste of mortals who ate garlic.
They placed their food orders, and Eleonore realized that somehow over the course of their discussion she’d drained the entire glass of IPA. Her mouth tingled and there was a bitter aftertaste resting on her tongue, but Ben was right—the flavor had grown on her, and it imparted a pleasant haze to her surroundings.
“Wait,” Eleonore said as the server started to back away. She raised the empty glass, then dashed it against the floor. “Another ale, wench!”
The girl jumped and nearly fell into a neighboring table. Conversation on the terrace stopped at the sound of breaking glass, and the other customers stared at her with jaws agape. Ben’s hand was pressed to his mouth, and he was cringing with what seemed to be his entire body.
Apparently she had done something out of the ordinary. Eleonore leaned across the table, lowering her voice. “Is that no longer the custom?” She had not dined outside of private assignations since being taken from her father’s keep.
“Ah, no,” Ben said. “I was unaware it ever was.” He knelt to scoop up shattered glass. “I’m so sorry,” he told the shocked-looking server. “She’ll have another IPA, please. Sorry. Thank you. I’m so, so sorry.”
The girl nodded and fled as another worker hurried over with a broom and badgered Ben back into his chair. Eleonore’s cheeks felt hot as the man cleaned up the mess she’d made, and she squirmed, disliking the feeling of being gawked at as much as she disliked the feeling of being apologized for. Ben was averaging one sorry every five seconds.
Thankfully, he stopped apologizing after the worker left with his bucketful of glass. Ben laced his fingers together in front of him on the table, adopting a professorial look. The Ben Explains Things expression, which she already recognized after only a few hours, due to the fact he’d had to explain rather a lot.
“So rule number one of modern dining is not to deliberately break any dishes,” Ben said.
“In my father’s hall it was done as a sign of appreciation,” Eleonore said, face flaming hotter. “Though our mugs were made of metal or wood, so they didn’t, ah, shatter like that.” In retrospect, she probably could have determined it was a bad idea if she’d paused to think for a single second, but thinking things through in advance had never been her strongest skill.
“You’re doing your best,” Ben said. He looked like he was biting the inside of one cheek, though. Was he secretly laughing at her?
Eleonore crossed her arms and sat back with a huff. “What is rule number two of modern dining?”
“Well, you probably shouldn’t call our server a wench.”
Yes, he was secretly laughing, although clearly trying to restrain it. Eleonore’s battered dignity appreciated the effort.
“Server is short for serving wench , isn’t it?” she asked.
“I…” He coughed into his fist. “No, I don’t think it is.”
Christ’s fingernails, this was annoying. She scraped the toe of her boot against the floor, trying to pretend she didn’t notice all the people looking at her and whispering. “What should I call her, then?”
“ Waitress would work. Or Miss or Ms ., maybe. Or you could ask her name.”
“Any other rules for modern dining?”
Ben’s lips quirked. “I hope it goes without saying that disemboweling people at the dinner table is frowned upon.”
She gave a half-hearted hiss at that. “Very funny.”
At the sound, the table nearest her abruptly returned their attention to their own plates.
“The best practice is to enjoy your meal and try not to do anything…destructive,” Ben said.
Easier said than done. The world was full of breakable things.
A second IPA was set down gingerly at her elbow. Seeing how nervous the wench—the server —looked, Eleonore bit down her bruised pride and attempted to make amends. “I apologize,” she said. “I regret throwing the glass.”
The server’s doe-brown eyes met Eleonore’s. “Not the weirdest thing to happen here,” she said. “We do live in Glimmer Falls, after all. And…are you an immortal, by any chance?”
What an odd question. “In a way,” Eleonore said. “I was imprisoned in a crystal six centuries past—”
“Right,” the waitress said, nodding. “Immortal. Totally get it.” She was smiling again, for whatever reason. “Never a dull moment when one of you is around.”
She moved away, leaving Eleonore confused. “Why did she ask me that?” she asked Ben.
He shrugged. “No idea.”
Well, at least Eleonore’s faux pas had apparently been forgiven. The mention of Glimmer Falls intrigued her, so she pushed Ben for more details about the “weird” things that happened in town. He warmed to the topic quickly, and by the time their meal arrived, Eleonore had learned about everything from public nudity to midnight blood orgies to tentacle wrestling. Compared to the time Diantha Spark had teleported a colony of raccoons into a town hall meeting or the time the Human-Centaur Polo League had consumed a few too many prematch drinks and ended up galloping through the library, one vampire succubus throwing a glass on the floor didn’t seem so bad after all.
The steak arrived, thick and so succulent-looking her mouth watered. Eleonore grabbed her knife and stabbed the chunk of meat, lifting it to her mouth.
“God’s tits!” she declared around the mouthful of meat. “This was seasoned well.”
A man and woman at the nearest table looked at her oddly, then nudged their chairs farther away. She was going to question why when she saw the dogs seated at their feet. They weren’t as lean or muscled as the hounds from her father’s hall—weren’t lean or muscled in the slightest, in fact—but perhaps they had been bred for a special purpose. They had curling gray-brown hair and sweet eyes and were small enough to hold in a lap, although two at once might overflow.
“What kind of hounds are those?” she asked Ben, pointing at them.
He was cringing again for some reason. “Schnoodles, I believe,” he said, looking between her and the animals. “So, uh, in modern day we generally eat with a fork…”
Eleonore was familiar with forks, but what was the point? There was no need to slice a steak into tiny pieces when teeth would do the job. She ate another bite of succulent meat off the tip of her knife. It was good of the restaurant to provide one—during the medieval era, guests had carried their own knives to the table.
It did seem she was the only person eating in this manner, though, and perhaps it would benefit her to blend in. So she put the steak down, speared it with a fork, and commenced trying to pry the meat apart.
Ben sat frozen with his own carefully sectioned bite halfway to his mouth, watching her attempts. She managed to rip a piece off, though it flew off the table. The hounds swarmed it immediately. These so-called schnoodles might have an undignified name, but they had retained their predatory instincts.
“Rupert! Wesley! No!” the neighboring diner said, tugging on the dogs’ leads. The pups ignored him, as well they should. Eleonore smiled, already planning to drop another piece of meat on the floor. Feeding the hounds had always been a particular delight of hers.
She finally managed to wrestle the steak into submission with her fork and knife. What a waste of time to eat in this way , she thought as she chewed a bite. They’d already consumed the garlic bread, so there was nothing to sop up the drippings—how was she supposed to clean her plate with a fork?
Food had never been wasted in her father’s hall. Though these hounds would be pleased to polish the plate with their tongues, their owner might stop them, and Eleonore had always liked drippings anyway. She shoved her chair back, preparing to stand so she could inquire after more bread.
The chair collided with something. “Ow!” a man said. “Watch it, lady!” A heavy hand landed on her shoulder.
Sudden touches were never good for a lifelong assassin.
Eleonore was on her feet in an instant, knocking the man’s hand away before she jammed her forearm into his throat and pinned him against the wall. Her heart raced as hot rage blazed through her, narrowing her field of vision until all she could see was the man’s flushed, terrified face. She could almost hear the witch’s voice in her head.
Kill the enemy. Kill him.
“Touch me and die,” she said, baring her fangs.
And people began screaming.