"The two aren't as different as you might think." She patted my hand again and picked up a menu. "Now, tell me, before we discuss the way to a succubus's heart, do they have anything here that is as delicious as your pancakes?"
There wasn't a hint of dimple in that smooth cheek, but the high arch of a delicate brow had me scowling suspiciously. "In your dreams," I muttered as I reached for my own laminated list of heart attack specials. "I am the pancake king."
There was no comment. A very tactful no comment.
After a careful study, Promise decided to go the safe route with a muffin and glass of orange juice. Coward. I ordered the bacon grease special. Bacon, eggs fried in bacon grease, and fried potatoes with bacon and onions. I took a runny yellow bite of egg and a forkful of potatoes, then ignored the rest for a cup of lethally strong and pathologically bitter coffee. Promise sipped orange juice from a squat, ugly glass, treating it as if it were the finest crystal. Blotting her lips delicately with a napkin, she encouraged, "Eat, Caliban. You're not doing anyone any favors by starving."
I shook my head and replied honestly, "I'm not hungry."
"Really? That's very interesting," she said lightly. "Now eat."
I couldn't describe the tone of that last command. It was no longer cajoling or encouraging and it damn sure wasn't a suggestion. On the other hand, I wouldn't call it threatening, not quite, but there was definitely steel under it. Whatever it was, it made me feel simultaneously sullen, weirdly appreciative, and about thirteen years old. Pulling the plate closer, I grumbled, "Damn it, you're pushy. Are you this pushy with Nik?"
"I thought that particular subject was one you didn't wish to discuss." Her eyes glittered with warm amusement.
Oh, man. I glared at her as I ate a piece of bacon. I hadn't been hungry—that had been the truth—but once I started shoveling it down, my appetite woke up fast. I buttered a biscuit and ate it in two bites before mumbling, "So, what about that crown?"
"So, how about those Yankees?" She shook her head and smiled. "Master of the conversational segue, I bow before you." She didn't wait on a response. It was a good thing because other than an egg-choked snarl, I didn't have one. "There wasn't much that I could discover. Apparently the crown is so ancient that it has been mostly forgotten. I was able to match the description we received from Caleb, although I was unable to discover its origin. The crown is actually one of a paired set and they were called, I believe, the Calabassa. At one time both were highly sought after. But that was thousands upon thousands of years ago. They've apparently been long separated, and in this time, few have heard of them, no one knows what they do, and no one particularly wants them, together or apart."
"Except Caleb." My lips thinned and I stabbed a chunk of ketchup-covered potato with unnecessary force and malevolence.
"Yes, except for him." Copper-colored nails passed over the muffin she held in her hand. "And Cerberus. He has it, does he not? If it has a function, he may know what it is. Then again, the onyx and rose gold it's made of, while not overly valuable, might make an interesting bauble. He may have it as a plaything for his mistress with no idea it could be more."
And we knew it had to be more. All this for some cheap trinket? No. Caleb was a ruthless and amoral son of a bitch, but he wasn't stupid. After all, he'd gotten the better of us… for the moment. This time, I really was finished with breakfast. I dropped my fork on top of the food, and Promise didn't try to push any further. I suppose she recognizes an angst-ridden snit when she sees one, I thought as I abruptly shoved away from the table. "I'll be right back."
In a diner, a nice bathroom wasn't precisely like winning the lottery, but it was close. As the door opened, I grimaced. Still a loser, all the way around.
It wasn't dirty, simply gray and bleak and smelling strongly of Lysol. It matched the rest of the eatery. I was surprised Promise had picked a place like this to meet. The entire joint wasn't as big as the living room of her apartment. And the bathroom? Hell, she probably had makeup cases bigger than this. It was a few steps down from a penthouse on the Upper East Side, no doubt about it. I closed the door behind me and took a cold, calculating look around. Something had to go. There was no way around it. Garbage can, empty paper-towel dispenser, the mirror… the goddamn gleefully, horrifically bright mirror. I automatically averted my eyes and stood with impotently clenched fists. I shook minutely as the rage inside struggled for release. It wanted out.
And it wanted out now.
When I finally returned to my chair nearly ten minutes later, Promise tilted her head and asked with resignation, "Can the damage be covered in cash or do I need to write a check?"
"Neither." I picked up the coffee mug and drained it. "I was a good boy." Not that it hadn't been close; it had been… right down to the wire. But just before my fist would've hit the mirror, I changed my mind. I wanted to save my rage, every molecule of it. It was all for Caleb. I wasn't going to deprive the bastard of that, and I wasn't going to deprive myself. Reaching into my pocket, I fished out a tie and pulled back my hair. "You know, I was wondering," I said, once again master of the segue, "why this place? Why'd you want to meet here? It's kind of…" I let the words trail off as I took another look around. There were overweight waitresses with straggling hair and spider vein legs, and a cook with a shaved head and homemade tattoos who slouched behind the counter with a toothpick between his thick lips and a floor so coated by grease fumes that it was as slick as an ice rink.
"Dingy, unsanitary, cheap?" she filled in archly.
"Not you," I temporized with a tact I didn't know I had in me.
"I think you might be surprised." She popped a cranberry from the muffin into her mouth and crushed it between white, white teeth. "This is a palace in comparison."
"In comparison to what?" I asked with genuine curiosity. All I knew about Promise was the here and now. Her history, her past… it was a mystery.
Her hands began to pink in the spill of sun reflecting on our table, and she quickly tucked them back under her cloak. "To where I was born." Her face was as smooth as always, but beneath that, I thought I saw an almost imperceptible tightening.
I couldn't remember precisely when I found out vampires were bom and not made, how old I was. I thought it was our first year on the run. Maybe. Part of that time was a little fuzzy. Two years in the tender loving care of the Auphe will do that to a person. I hadn't remembered any of those two years when I'd returned, still didn't, not consciously anyway. But it was clear that in the muck and slime beneath the conscious, something had lingered. For months after I'd reappeared, I'd slept under the bed, a tightly wedged fetal ball with a knife in hand and nightmares that were never remembered in the light of day.
Sixteen then. I would've been sixteen when we ran across the vampire children in the park. They were playing beneath a midnight sky. Running, jumping, laughing, they were just like human kids, except they were faster. And they could jump higher. Flat-footed they would leap into the branches of a tree, swing, and giggle. They were cute… bows, barrettes, and tiny baby fangs. It could've been a scene from one of those creepy horror novels with all the velvet, homo-erotic vampire nooky, and tormented vampire children who could never grow any older. And for a second I'd actually bought into that. Sickened, I'd stood beside Niko and waited for them to drop out of the tree and drain some night jogger dry.
Then we saw their mother.
Or maybe it was their nanny, babysitter… Who knew? There were quite a few kids, and as long as vampires lived, I couldn't believe they'd breed that fast. Whoever it was, she was pregnant. A pregnant vampire, elegant in white maternity wear—no black velvet for her. With glossy blond hair coiled on her head and large, dark eyes, she was the picture of contentment and impending motherhood. That is, until she saw us. Hormones—it was the same for pregnant humans and pregnant vampires. Cranky, cranky, cranky. She must've sensed we were different from the average park goer, whether it was the Auphe in me or the hunter in Niko. We ran. What else were we going to do? Stake a mom-to-be? As options went, it wasn't so hot. To sum it all up, vampires reproduce, not recruit, and pregnant vampires can still run pretty damn fast.