Part 26 (1/2)

We'd rounded into a sprinkle of outdoor tables, where eel-men were fortifying themselves for nightfall. The eels were running, and eels are best caught in the dark.

”Please! I shall go mad otherwise.”

I sat at the nearest table; I couldn't be bothered to care, not about Cecil. But the thought of eels wriggled its way into my mind. Eels, sent to inland cities; eels, smoked or jellied or simply made into soup. Any method will do for those of homicidal disposition. Just add your favorite poison. It will never be detected beneath the taste of eel, which is so, well, eel-ish.

”I'm awfully tired,” I said. ”Can you be quick about it?”

Poor Cecil, consumed by a grande pa.s.sion, only to be told to compress his love manifesto into a haiku.

”I won't try to excuse my behavior,” he said. ”It was despicable.”

Or a limerick.

There once was a rotter named Cecil,

Whose Love Interest wished he could be still.

Oh well. Unlike some, at least, I've never pretended to be a poet.

Cecil clutched at his hair, although he would undoubtedly prefer that his biographers describe him as having rent his hair. The effect was not unattractive. ”I can't explain what came over me.”

”I can.”

He rent his dark tresses,

Resulting in messes,

Thus prompting his L.I. to flee till,

she reached the end of the world and jumped off.

Perhaps I have untapped potential.

”You do understand! You know how it drives one mad.”

”What does?”

”Unrequited love,” said Cecil.

”Unrequited l.u.s.t, you mean.”

”It's no such thing!”

”Really?” I said. ”I can hardly take that as a compliment.”

Cecil's tongue stumbled over itself, trying to explain the fine distinction between pa.s.sion and l.u.s.t- ”And drink,” I said.

”Briony, please.” Cecil reached across the table.

My hand jumped away of itself. ”Don't touch me!” My voice went funny, making us both pause and lean back.

Cecil broke the silence. ”Are you afraid of me?”

”Would you enjoy it if I were?”

Of course I wasn't afraid. I'd been afraid on Blackberry Night, but only in a primitive, reactive sort of way. The startle-fear of tripping on a stair, or hearing a noise in the dark.

What could Fitz possibly have seen in him? They spent such a quant.i.ty of time together.

”Whatever did you and Fitz talk about?”

Cecil blinked, twice, as though that would help him catch up with the conversation. ”We were drinking mates. We didn't talk much.”

”You can't drink and talk at the same time?”

”Oh, I showed Fitz a few things,” said Cecil. ”He's older than I, but less experienced in the ways of the world.”

Fitz, less experienced? Fitz, who's been to Paris and Vienna? ”What ways?”

”I don't want to talk about Fitz,” said Cecil. ”I want to talk about you, about us. First Eldric came, and now you've changed.”

”You're the one who's changed.” I showed him the pale underside of my wrist, the bruises left by two fingers and a thumb.

If there were such a thing as a vampire-puppy-dog, it would be Cecil. Big pleading eyes, asking for an ear-scratch and a nice warm bowl of blood.

”Why don't you have any bruises?” I said. The vampire-puppy-dog looked all about.

”Eldric hit you hard.”

”He hit me where you can't see,” said Cecil at last.

Where you can't see? Most satisfactory!

”Forget Eldric,” said Cecil. ”I was useful to you, admit it.”

”Useful?” I said. ”How do you mean?”

”Are you back to that game?” His eyes went narrow and chilly. Terrifying, I'm sure. ”Pretending you never took me into your confidence about it.”