As the drinks were poured and appetizers were served, Nick unobtrusively sniffed for poison, first for Raluca and then for himself, before giving her the little nod that meant it was safe. She took a delicate sip of her drink and began to converse charmingly with the people across from her.
“No, of course they are not real,” she said, with her wind-chime laugh. “They are temporary tattoos, painted on by a makeup artist. I was inspired by Alexander McQueen’s fashion show in Vienna.”
Nick had been focused on smell, not sight, so it was only then that he took in what he’d been served. It looked like a weird, tiny sculpture, but was presumably edible. Green liquid pooled around a piece of carved red jello, a gray blob covered in white foam was plopped atop the jello, and little black balls and even tinier green flecks were sprinkled over the foam.
He had no fucking idea what it was or how to eat it, but since it had mostly smelled like fish, he hoped the jello wasn’t cherry-flavored. Or wasn’t actually jello. Now that he thought about it, there was no way it could be jello. This was not a jello-type place.
Nick took a moment to recall his lessons before he touched anything.
“Silverware is used from the outside in,” Rafa had said. “The fork or spoon that’s farthest from you is the one you use to eat the first course. Forks are on the left, knives and spoons are on the right, juts like a normal place setting.”
Nick reached left, picked up the farthest fork, and poked the red stuff. It wobbled, exactly like jello. The foam dripped down, exactly like spit.
Wishing he hadn’t thought of that, Nick stabbed the entire thing and shoved it in, intending to swallow it whole. It came apart in his mouth, making that plan impossible. The jello tasted like bell peppers, the sauce was vaguely herbal, the black things popped between his teeth and released a blast of salty fishiness, and the spit — foam — turned out to have concealed a slimy raw oyster.
Nick battled the impulse to spit it out, which was a challenge as every single bit of it had a gross flavor or texture or mental association or all three, chewed, and swallowed. Then he grabbed the nearest glass and took a huge swig of whatever the fuck was in it, which turned out to be red wine.
He looked up to see everyone within a few seats of him staring at him. Raluca included.
A pompous-looking old dude addressed him in a voice that was helpful on the surface and condescending all the way down to the center of the Earth. “Young man, the oyster fork is on the other side.”
Nick took another look at his place setting. Sure enough, a lone, weird-looking fork
was on the right, farthest away from him. Everyone but him was using it to eat the oyster-jello-spit thing.
“My bad — apologies. The oyster was buried under the sauce, so I thought it was... something else,” he finished unconvincingly.
To Nick’s surprise, Raluca backed him up. “Quite true. I nearly used the fish fork myself. I adore the chef’s sense of mischief, hiding the oyster like a delightful little surprise gift, but it does put one in danger of making a minor faux pas with the silverware.”
The equally pompous old lady beside the old man gave a sniff. “Perhaps. I certainly saw my oyster. That being said, red wine does not go with either fish or oysters. And the caviar made it clear that the amuse bouche contained some form of fish or shellfish.”
Nick stifled the urge to throw what was left of his red wine in their faces and thought, What would Rafa say?
“I was so struck by the elegance of the presentation, I wasn’t looking where I was reaching,” Nick said.
Who are you and what did you do with Nick? His wolf growled.
That’s called being undercover, Nick said silently. That line fucking killed it and you know it.
“Humph,” the old couple said in a condescending chorus, then fell silent as the dishes were cleared and more drinks were poured.
Nick breathed in: no poison, no dragonsbane. He looked: no suspicious movements or expressions on anyone, guests or waiters. He nodded to Raluca, then decided to watch what she did before he made any moves himself.
The next course was tomato soup. She picked up the spoon farthest from herself, took a spoonful, then set it down and sipped at her white wine.
That seemed easy enough. Nick took a spoonful of soup. It was ice-cold, not hot. The surprise nearly made him choke, especially since the place was so fancy. Even the worst restaurants might serve soup Luke-warm, but not cold.
He looked at Raluca, but she was eating hers with a totally straight face. But that was her thing: she’d been trained to be excruciatingly polite. Or was hers all right? No one else was reacting. Maybe it was just his that someone had forgotten to heat up.
He let his hand drift near her bowl. Hers was cold, too. It was both of theirs, then.
In an undertone, Nick said, “Raluca, you don’t have to eat it.”
“It’s quite pleasant.” Raluca took another spoonful.
She was obviously going to be polite if it fucking killed her. For the first time, Nick had a sense of how hard it might be to be a princess sometimes. Sure, eating cold soup was nothing compared to the shit that poor people went through, but it was no fun, either. And there was no reason she should put up with it.
“If you don’t want to send it back yourself, I’ll send it back for you,” Nick said. “Waiter!”