I jumped. “Don’t tell me you read minds.”
“Occasionally.” He said it as if it were merely a boring incidental. “You are ridiculously easy to read.” Then he added, “You know you’re not mortal.”
I stared at him in astonishment, then remembered I was supposed to be some kind of demon. “I gather so- called demons are immortal. Then how could you kill me?”
“Immortals can be killed only by other immortals. Not by human means or natural occurrences. You cannot drown unless I am the one holding you under.”
“Doubtless a fond wish on your part,” I said. At least I had seen no water around this dark, depressing city.
He didn’t reply as a waiter appeared, laden with plates that as far as I could tell hadn’t been ordered. The food was horrible-looking—gray meat in gray gravy, pale potatoes, and taupe-colored vegetables. Even the wine looked muddy. But it smelled good, and that was all that mattered. I had a choice. I could let him cow me, refuse to eat, sit there in sullen silence. Or I could eat.
I ate. It tasted heavenly, so good I closed my eyes and moaned in pleasure. Normally I wasn’t a big fan of heavy German cooking, but this was so wonderful I’d risk a thousand clogged arteries for it. I glanced at his plate. Not much on it, and I had the sudden horrifying suspicion that they’d given me the wrong plate. His looked much more like the diet plates I’d been subsisting on for most of my life. Whatever life I could remember.
I set down my fork. “Did they give me the wrong plate?”
“No. You said you were hungry. I never eat much.”
I was going to ask him how they knew what to bring, then picked up my fork and shoveled more food into my mouth instead. Two could play this game.
I ate in silence, slowly, savoring every bite, trying not to notice as he picked at his meager food. He wasn’t as thin as the first time I’d seen him. He’d filled out a bit, and there was definition to the muscles of his arms. Strong arms. But I knew that—he’d carried me effortlessly, flown with me …
No, that was wrong. I had no idea where that notion had come from, but it was ridiculous. Just as I finished the heavy meal, feeling not quite sated, coffee and a raspberry pastry arrived in front of me. I glanced up at him. “No chocolate bribes?”
It was a test. “You have never liked chocolate,” he said, giving me another piece of information. I was strongly tempted to demand a hot fudge sundae, but he was, as always, correct. I didn’t like chocolate. I had no idea how he knew these things, the minor details of a human life, but he did. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him.
The maitre d’ appeared at our table when we were done, and I expected to see a discreet bill placed at Azazel’s elbow. There was no neat folder in Edgar’s hand. “He knows you’re here,” the man said in an undertone. “He wants to see her.”
An annoyed expression crossed my companion’s face. “She needs time.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, my lord.”
Azazel tossed his heavy linen napkin on the table. Another man would have sighed in frustration. Azazel simply looked colder, if that were possible. He rose, glancing down at me. “Come.”
I was beginning to hate that word in his cold, commanding voice. “I’m not finished.” In fact, I was too full to eat much more, but I was determined to fight him at every step.
“Yes, you are.” He reached down for me, but I managed to keep out of his way, rising and almost knocking the chair over in my hurry to keep out of his grasp. The other customers were watching now, surreptitiously, and I wondered if it was good manners or something about Azazel in particular that made them circumspect. Or perhaps they were just so beaten down they didn’t really care.
I took a quick look around, wondering if there was anyone I could turn to for help. But the moment I tried to catch someone’s eyes, the person turned away as if I were unclean. I huffed with annoyance. I was on my own, but that was no novelty. I’d survived thousands … decades …
No, that wasn’t right. I’d survived years without anyone’s help, and I’d survive this. After all, I’d managed to get out of the last trap he’d laid for me. Granted, it had been by his good graces, though I hated to call it that. His guilty conscience.
This new situation wasn’t nearly as desperate. He wasn’t threatening to kill me, at least not so far. Things had to be looking up.
We made a strange procession, the maitre d’ leading the way through a door in the back of the dining room into a maze of dark, narrow hallways, Azazel behind me to keep me from bolting. It was scarcely necessary—where would I go? I tried to ignore my growing panic as we went deeper and deeper into the bowels of the building. If I was about to confront someone who could bend the intimidating Azazel to his will, then this creature must be terrifying indeed.
We finally stopped in front of a large, unprepossessing door. Our guide knocked, then pushed it open, and a none-too-gentle nudge from Azazel propelled me forward.
I found myself in a cozy room with comfortable furniture scattered about, a fire blazing in the fireplace, piles of books on most surfaces. The kind of place one would want to spend a rainy afternoon, I thought, looking around me for the inhabitant.
I hadn’t seen him at first, sitting in an overstuffed chair, at one with the cozy room. He was very old, with silky pale hair covering his scalp and drifting over his ears. He was as colorless as everyone else in this place, and I wondered if the same thing would happen to me and my captor, assuming we stayed long enough. He wore some kind of robe, and there was the comforting scent of pipe smoke in the air. Odd, how cigarettes and cigars smelled nasty but pipe smoke seemed dignified and comforting.
The old man gazed at me out of milky eyes, a pleasant expression on his lined face. “There you are, my dear,” he said, and his accent was British. No surprise—it fit perfectly with the ambience of old books and older brandy. His eyes narrowed as he saw Azazel behind me, and he was patently displeased. “Azazel.”
“Beloch,” Azazel murmured in return with the merest inclination of his head. “This is not a good time.”
