“Lou Malnati’s, Gino’s East, Birbiglia’s.” Three more possibilities sprang to mind, but I stopped offering them when I realized I was only helping his argument. “Those are from memory. Not scent.”
Ethan chuckled. “Which way, Sherlock?”
“I’d suggest you go to hell, but if you mean pizza, we should go left. You think it’s safe?”
“Rarely,” he said grimly. “But I think it’s unlikely Balthasar would have followed us here, plans to attack us as we walk down the street for pizza.”
“Not enough ceremony,” I said, following the train of thought, and he nodded.
“Precisely.”
So we set off down the quiet street in the warm spring air. He’d normally have taken my hand, or put his long fingers at the small of my back to remind me he was there, or to remind others I was taken. I didn’t mind the machismo, but either he could tell I still needed space, or he was still stinging from my last physical rebuke.
I couldn’t think about that, I told myself. Had to worry about my own needs, had to take care of myself. And hopefully, when all was said and done—and all would be said and done—we could find each other again.
* * *
Six blocks later, we stood in front of Two Brothers’ Pizza, a new-to-me shop squeezed in a small commercial chunk of the neighborhood between a coffee shop and luxe real estate agency.
Two gold pots stood beside the door, each holding tropical flowers that looked decidedly genital—a white-cupped petal with blushes of pink in the center, and a large protruding stamen right in the middle.
I snickered like a fourteen-year-old boy.
“Interesting décor,” Ethan said, glancing through the window.
The restaurant was entirely white—white tile floor and walls, white stone bar, white leather bar stools on spindly brass legs. Even the liquor had been poured into white bottles. A giant chalkboard hung behind the bar, a list of apparent possible pizza toppings written in pretty chalk script.
“Intriguing,” Ethan said, scanning the list.
“I don’t know. I just don’t really see carrots on pizza. Or radishes.” I had an unpleasant memory of Catcher eating “shepherd’s pie” pizza covered in mashed potatoes, peas, and meat. I wasn’t exaggerating to say it was a felony against pizza, and the mere idea of it put me off vegetable toppings completely. If it wasn’t meat or cheese, it had no business atop a pie.
“The vitamins are good for you.”
“I’m immortal.”
“Strong fangs,” Ethan said, walking inside and stepping up to the counter.
* * *
Fortunately, he was willing to compromise. He’d try the triple meat I selected, and I’d try his beet, carrot, and mortadella concoction. Being the gentleman that he was, Ethan offered to carry the boxes back to Navarre House.
The night was beautiful—a light breeze, white clouds moving across the darkened sky, humans walking dogs or chatting with neighbors in the small, gated entryways that characterized the houses in the Gold Coast. It was a neighborhood of wealth, of luxury and relative safety. No turf wars, no abandoned lots, very little crime. Those who lived there were lucky, at least materially.
We were two blocks from Navarre when Ethan’s phone beeped. He pulled it out and stopped short, his magic filling the air. Even the flavor of Ethan’s fear and hatred for his maker was becoming recognizable.
“Where is he?” I asked, my stomach knotting with nerves.
He handed me the phone. Luc had messaged him a photograph—a grainy black-and-white of Balthasar standing on the sidewalk across the street from Cadogan, his coat billowing around his ankles as he stared at the House.
o;It is,” Malik agreed. “And given the faction’s love of Celina, I’d strongly suspect no one has any idea how bad things truly are. And we’re only through the surface layers.”
My stomach picked that moment to grumble, and I squinted with mild embarrassment.
“Let’s not delay the inevitable,” Ethan said. “We’ll get some food. Keep at it,” he said to Malik. “Don’t hesitate to call if any problems arise.”
“Let us hope it doesn’t,” Malik said.
For vampires, hope literally sprang eternal.