Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
“Do I have no say in this?” says the large, goat-horned man from the head of the table.
“No,” says Hannah and Thing together as Thing plops baby Raven in Remus’s lap.
“You’re both being ridiculous,” Remus starts to say. “I’m not afraid of my own niece—”
And yet, his words cut off as soon as the baby’s in his lap, and his hands shoot out to steady her. He blinks down at her once, twice, and then his head does that unnerving Exorcist-spin thing.
“Romulus, thank God,” Hannah says to the twin who blinks awake in Remus’s place. He’s much calmer as he smiles at the baby, lifting her in the air like an absolute natural and perching her on his shoulder to rub her little back underneath her wings. She coos and babbles away into his ear, her wings fluttering happily.
“You’re just in time,” Hannah says brightly. “Thing caught a lynx, and I made a feast.”
“I don’t see why a spy for the enemy should get to eat my food,” the horned one growls from low in his throat.
Before I can get the words out that are suddenly clogged in my throat, Hannah glares at him. “Don’t you start, Abaddon. We just got rid of Remus, and you are not going to ruin the first opportunity I’ve had for company in months.”
Then she pops up and smiles at me. “Want me to dish you up a little of everything?” I can feel her hundred-watt smile even though I drop my eyes to the table.
I nod and try to remember how to act like a normal person. Then I remember I’ve never been normal. Then the obvious occurs to me—treat it like a job.
I pretend to be normal when I’m hunting a mark. Maybe I can do that long enough to make it through this dinner. I just have to mask all my natural inclinations and habits by behaving the way I observe others behaving.
I close my eyes a moment, take a slow breath in, and when I open my eyes, I’m Social Ksenia. She’s an act, but she tends to put others at ease.
“Sure,” I tell Hannah, curving my lips slightly. Pleasantly. Now I’m the pleasantest bitch you ever met. “I’ll take a little of everything. But no peas or mashed potatoes, thanks.” I try not to shudder at the thought of peas or the strange consistency of the potatoes.
Hannah pauses, frowning at me. “So you just want meat and carrots and. . .?”
“And bread,” I supply helpfully.
She shrugs and plates up my food. I try not to squirm at how the juice from the cooked carrots mixes with the meat. I reach for the bread and put some on my napkin before she tries to put it on the same plate.
“Do you want some wine?” she asks as she hands me the plate.
I’m about to say no. I rarely drink, especially when I’m in enemy territory. But then I see her pull out a fresh bottle and a corker and hesitate.
It’s been one hell of a day.
I suddenly remember my fifth kill, when I injected poison through a cork into a really expensive Riesling. One of my smoothest kills. Though I’ll admit, the lack of blood was a little bit of a letdown. Not even a nosebleed. The bastard was just slumped over his plate of caviar.
“Sure, I’ll have a glass,” I say, feeling reckless. I watch with more concentration than is probably appropriate for Social Ksenia to make sure the foil wrap from the top of the wine looks intact and has no holes before she inserts the corkscrew to pull out the cork.
I pull the glass towards me after she pours it, watching carefully as she pours herself a glass. I only take a sip after she does. I’m glad for the bit of relaxation as the men pile their plates high with meat. Hannah’s the only one who eats the peas, and I try not to stare as they keep running away from her fork every time she scoops them up.
Romulus holds the baby with one arm and eats with the other. Abaddon tries to use his fork and knife, but the small, delicate utensils are awkward in his large, clawed hands. After about five minutes, he gets frustrated and tosses them beside the plate, grabbing the large hunk of meat from his plate with his hands and tearing into it with his teeth.
I avert my eyes quickly. I’ve been told people get uncomfortable when you stare. Social Ksenia usually knows better, but these are rather extreme circumstances. I take another swig of wine.
“So, tell us again how you came to be in our forest?” says the horned one—Abaddon.
I choke a little on my wine before setting it down, pretending to look him in the eye by inspecting his unique lion’s-eye irises and reply, “I haven’t, actually.”