accident.
Our food arrived, and I grinned mischievously at Granuaile as her plate was settled reverently before her. She gave it right back as mine appeared before me.
“Okay, one thing at a time, right?” she said.
“Right.”
“Age before beauty. Start with that stir-fry thing right there.” She pointed to some suspicious cauliflower- looking bits mixed in with vegetables and fried brown rice.
“All right,” I said, taking a generous forkful. Granuaile watched me put it in my mouth and chew, horrified fascination writ large upon her face.
The cauliflower bits weren’t cauliflower. They were mushy, a bit gelatinous. But they had a nice, spicy flavor, if a bit pedestrian. Taste-wise it wasn’t terribly unique, just an unusual texture.
Granuaile waited until I’d swallowed and then she said, “Congratulations. That was a bheja fry-goat brains.”
“Brains? You made me eat brains like a zombie? Ugh!”
“Braaaaaaains,” she moaned, eyes rolling up in her head.
“I bet you zombies would like them even more with these spices. All right, take that fried thing there, dip it in the cocktail sauce, and chow down.”
Granuaile eyed it cautiously, as if it might suddenly decide to move. It looked like a large chicken nugget, but it wasn’t. “What’s under all the batter?” she asked.
“You find out after you eat it. Those are the rules.”
She did as instructed, taking a tiny bite at first and quirking an eyebrow at me by way of inquiry.
“Eat the whole thing,” I said.
She sighed and chomped down the rest of it. “That wasn’t so bad,” she said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “What was it?”
“That was a Rocky Mountain oyster, also known as a Montana tendergroin.”
“No. I just ate a bull’s balls?”
“Only one, but yes, you just tore up a tasty testicle. Congratulations!”
Disgust suffused her expression for a moment, but it was quickly replaced by narrowed eyes and a cold promise of grief. She gripped the tablecloth and squeezed it, pretending, perhaps, it was my newly healed neck. “You will never tell anyone about this.”
“No,” I said. I fully intended to write it down, however. To keep her from extracting a promise not to record this in any way, I waved at my plate and said, “What shall I try next?” We worked our way through the culinary dares, and I kept half an ear open for what was going on at the vampire’s table. The brunette didn’t order anything, just ice water with lemon, and that sat on her table and sweated.
At one point, she turned her head and gave me a good stare. Leif had always told me my blood tasted different from that of modern men. I’m sure it smelled different too. The vampire didn’t know what I was, precisely, but she knew my blood was as exotic to her as sloth steak was to me. Chances were she’d be stalking me after she disposed of her college boy-if she hadn’t stalked me in here to begin with.
I paid for dinner, got Oberon’s yak liver to go, and said, “Let’s talk about that other thing when we get to Granny’s.” Granuaile nodded her understanding. We collected Oberon outside and I kept his camouflage on.
I’ll need you to stay hidden while we’re at Granny’s Closet too. Keep your nose open for any more vampires and let me know.
Yeah, I’ll get you a steak and bring it out, I said as we got in the car.
I answered him out loud to see what reaction it got. “She made it through all five courses, buddy. Sorry. You’re back up to negative sixteen sausages.”
“Wait,” Granuaile said. “Oberon bet against me? Thanks a lot, Oberon.”
We pulled into the parking lot of Granny’s Closet and searched for a suitable place for Oberon to hang out. The lot stretched to the north of the restaurant, and we left Oberon on the north side. The entrance faced the west.
Once you stepped through the door, the dining area was to your left and the bar to your right, with the kitchen sandwiched in between. We ducked to the right and entered a room of dark wood and red filtered light. The bar was on the west wall, and half booths lined the remaining three-the kind where the seats on the walls are padded and two chairs rest on the other side of the table. The center of the floor was dotted with wee tables big enough to put down your drink and maybe a plate of wings, no more.
We took a table on the east wall and sat facing the room. A primped and pushed-up waitress took our orders over to the bar, where a rakishly handsome lad was mixing drinks. Granuaile eyed him with professional interest. And perhaps… something more. Her eyes flicked toward me and she caught me looking at her-she was extremely good at that-and then she looked down, a flush of embarrassment blooming up her neck.
I understood that this time she felt that she was the one who’d been caught. I joined her with a sympathy blush. Not so long ago, Granuaile and I had casually flirted with each other-well, I confess that perhaps it was not so casual on my part. When she was just a bartender and I was just a customer, both of us were fair game to be pursued. Now our relationship had shifted, necessarily, and I, for one, was having a bit of trouble with it.
The trouble was, I couldn’t stop staring at her. Granuaile wasn’t one of those exotic siren types of redheads, like a Jessica Rabbit or something; she was naturally beautiful, often wearing nothing but some mascara around her eyes and the gloss on her lips. I noticed how the soft glow of red lights shimmered on them; they were the sort of lips you couldn’t not think about kissing. But now that she was my apprentice, every such thought caused a guilty twitch in my neck, as if someone had dropped a sleek, stinky ferret there. Guilt ferrets are bastards.
I didn’t know if Granuaile was having the same kind of trouble I was. Still, I knew enough to recognize the tension between us, and it would be unwise to let it continue. Problem was, I didn’t know how to address it gracefully. I was fairly certain it couldn’t be done.
“Um, look, Granuaile…” I faltered, unsure of how to continue.
“Look at what?”
“Not that kind of look. Bollocks. Well, forgive me for saying something epically awkward, but I think it needs to be said. I don’t want you to think that becoming a Druid involves a vow of celibacy or anything. Celibacy is a terrible idea, adhered to by people who hate themselves and want everyone else to do the same. You should do what you want to do, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her tone was light but her expression carried a warning. I ignored it.
“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. And who I mean.” I nodded my head toward the handsome bartender she’d been checking out.
Granuaile kept her eyes on me and they narrowed dangerously. “Are you giving me permission to have sex?” Her voice had a definite edge to it now. Rather sharp, actually: the kind of edge that saws effortlessly through aluminum cans, with a cheesy announcer saying, “ Now how much would you pay for a knife like that?”
“No, I’m telling you that you don’t need my permission.”
“I should hope not!”
“Good, we’re agreed.” I hoped that would convince her to drop it, but no such luck. Her eyes flared at me.
“What? No, I don’t think so. What brought this on? Do you think I’m some sort of sex-starved loser?”
“Well, you are American.”
“What!”
Great festering tapir tits, that was a stupid thing to say. This was not going well, but there was nothing to do now but plunge deeper and hope I’d be able to swim out again. “I mean you have all these modern American hang-ups about the subject. You’re getting all defensive about something that should be perfectly natural and relaxing.”
“That is a cheap rhetorical device. By accusing me of being defensive, I cannot respond without proving your point, however unrelated it might be to the original topic. And the original topic under discussion here is your presumption that you have anything to say at all about my sex life.”
“See, I told you this would be epically awkward. I was simply trying to explain that I’m not the sin police, and if you want to make a move on Mr. Drinky McDrinkypants over there, you can go right ahead.”
Granuaile’s lips drew into a tight, furious line. “If you were anyone else, I would slap you so hard you’d have
