Chapter 36 Jules #3
Don Malthus “eats” again—the food fading from his plate as if swallowed by the air and I try not to shiver as I watch him from the corner of my eye.
My own food is delicious, but I just can’t give it the attention it deserves—this situation is too damn strange.
Though I guess maybe if I can’t get out of here, I’ll probably get used to these diplomatic dinners, serving as Lucian’s queen and greeting the other Dons who will be his guests.
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.
For Don Malthus a translucent dessert dome that looks like a glass skull made of mist appears. Inside it I see a pale “mousse” that barely exists. When he lifts the “lid” or top of the skull, cold rolls across the table like graveyard fog.
I pick up my fork, trying to pretend this is normal and that I don’t feel the chill of the grave as I take my first bite of the delicious spice cake.
It really is amazing and after a minute, I’m mostly able to concentrate on enjoying it.
I take a sip of the sweet dessert wine a servant has poured into the dainty crystal goblet in front of me and the pairing with the cake is positively scrumptious.
Just as I’m thinking we might actually make it through to the end of this awkward dinner without something insane happening—because clearly I am naive—the huge double doors of the dining room swing open and Whistler the Realm-Hopper steps through.
He’s exactly as I remember him—with his wild hair and long leather duster. Under one arm, he holds a cat—my cat.
Mr. Mittens is meowing loudly and angrily, his black and white fur puffed up like he’s ready to fight the entire Shadow Realm. His tail lashes, and his green eyes are furious. I don’t need to understand cat language to be sure he’s cussing Whistler out.
“Oh my God!” I gasp, shooting to my feet so fast my chair scrapes on the flagstone floor. “Mr. Mittens!”
Lucian’s head turns sharply toward the cat, his expression unreadable for a moment—then something like satisfaction settles in his eyes.
I barely notice, because I’m already reaching for my furry companion.
Mr. Mittens yowls again, and wiggles free of Whistler. He launches himself into my arms.
“Hi, baby,” I whisper, cuddling him close—not caring that he’s getting cat fur all over my expensive dress. He’s warm and solid and real, and he immediately headbutts my chin like he’s scolding me for leaving or maybe asking, “Where were you? I missed you!”
I laugh and cry at the same time.
“I missed you too—so much!”
He meows, loud and accusing.
“I know,” I murmur into his fur. “I know.”
Then I realize Whistler isn’t alone. Someone has stepped out from behind his voluminous coat, like an appearance at the end of a magic trick.
Whistler’s hand is clamped around the upper arm of this person—who appears to be a woman.
At first glance she looks strange—too thin with features that are too sharp.
Her bones seem to poke through her skin, which has an almost pearlescent sheen to it.
Her hair is jewel-colored—shifting between emerald and sapphire depending on the light.
Her eyes are too bright—the irises glittering like gemstones.
Her ears taper into delicate points an inch above her head and her cheekbones are high and elegant in a way that makes her look like she stepped out of a fantasy painting.
After I get over her odd appearance—she must be one of the Fae from the Briar Court, I decide—I immediately see that she’s not happy to be here.
She’s trembling and tears cling to her lashes. In fact, she looks scared to death. Odd-looking or not, my heart goes out to her. This poor woman—why in the world has Whistler brought her here?
Lucian’s posture stiffens as he notices her as well and Don Malthus goes very still, his skull mask angled slightly, like a predator deciding whether it’s interested in a certain kind of prey.
I clutch Mr. Mittens tighter, my heart racing again and look at the strange woman.
“Who’s this?” I ask.
The woman looks at me—truly looks at me—and her face crumples.
“Jules,” she whispers, voice shaking. “Don’t you recognize me?”
My blood turns to ice, because I do recognize that voice.
But her face is still wholly unfamiliar.
I have a thought—could she be wearing a spell—what did they call it?
Oh right—a glamour. Could she be wearing a glamour like the one Whistler put on me when he first brought me over from the Human Realm?
Whistler giggles with glee.
“Every time, I gets ‘em! Nobody can see through Whistler’s wily ways—so they can’t. Never fear,” he says to me. “Let me drop the glamour.”
He snaps his fingers.
And standing right in front of me, looking scared to death, is my good friend from Book Club—Hanna.