Read Online Lynn Viehl - Darkyn 1 - If Angels Burn (v1.1) by If Angels Burn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: If Angels Burn
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I’ve already seen it; I’m not going to faint.” She sat down. Her plate was filled with shredded lettuce topped with shrimp in a spicy-looking sauce. Cyprien’s plate was empty. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I cannot see to dine ‘normally’ ”—he pulled back the hood and gestured toward the scar tissue over his eyes—“and my dietary requirements are complicated. I am here solely as your companion tonight.”
“Really.” Alex still didn’t trust him or his fancy French food. She ignored the crystal flute Phillipe filled with something golden and bubbly poured from a dark wine bottle and instead drank from the water glass. “What sort of diet? Atkins? South Beach?”
“An unvarying one.” He looked as if he would say more, and then his head turned away. “The first course is shrimp rémoulade, I believe.”
She jabbed her fork into a plump, pink shrimp and took a test nibble, startled when the spicy sauce bit back. “Oh, hot.”
As she sucked in air to cool the burn, the savory taste spread over her tongue. “But, wow, great.”
“Save room for dessert,” Cyprien advised her.
The meal was beyond delicious. Phillipe served each course in silence while Cyprien pointed out some of the differences between French and Creole cuisine. Alex noticed that he paused at times and seemed to be listening to her eat. She stayed quiet until Phillipe placed a hefty slice of a familiar dessert on her plate and poured a buttery sauce over it.
“Hey, I haven’t had bread pudding since I was a kid.” She took a bite and nearly moaned. “Omigod.” Phillipe stepped forward and tried to take her plate, and she slapped the back of his knuckles. “Back off, Goliath.”
Phillipe glowered at her and tried to take the dessert again, until Cyprien raised a hand.
“
C’est délicieux
.” To Alex, Cyprien said, “He thought perhaps you did not like it.”
She curled a hand around the plate and gave the seneschal a direct look. “Mine.”
Phillipe stepped back to his place by the wall and tried not to look pleased.
“What made you decide to specialize in reconstructive surgery?” Cyprien asked.
She shrugged before she remembered that the gesture was wasted on him. “Good money.”
The scar tissue across his forehead shifted. “With the number of charity cases you treat, I doubt that.”
Cyprien wasn’t making polite chitchat now; he really wanted to know. In a way, that curiosity was more invasive than his kidnapping her—which reminded her, she was the man’s prisoner—and that spoiled everything. She pushed away the remainder of the bread pudding. “All you want is my speed, not my life story.”
The misshapen head inclined her way. “I would still like to know why you became what you are.”
She sipped some water. “We had a gardener, this old Polish guy named Stash. He was strong as a bull but a wizard with flowers, and he could grow anything.”
“He was kind to you?”
“Not particularly. He grumbled whenever I played in the garden and told me not to touch anything.” She wanted the wine now, wanted the warmth to thaw the ice inside her, but she wouldn’t let herself drink it. Not here, not with him. “Stash had a big red nose with a sore on it that wouldn’t heal. By the time he saw a doctor, it was too late. It was melanoma—skin cancer—and it was bad. His nose had to be amputated.”
Cyprien made no crass comment, or any sound at all. He simply sat and listened.
“Stash came back to work with a big bandage over his face. Then he had to wear a prosthetic nose.” She remembered how it had looked on his weather-beaten face, and the red, angry flesh around it. “Kids aren’t very nice to old men, and some of our neighbors’ brats came to the fence and called Stash names, like he was a monster.”
“Did you do the same?”
“Nope. Once I saw him take off the fake nose to wipe some sweat away. I told him he just looked like a jack-o’-lantern, and he should take off his
“I cannot see to dine ‘normally’ ”—he pulled back the hood and gestured toward the scar tissue over his eyes—“and my dietary requirements are complicated. I am here solely as your companion tonight.”
“Really.” Alex still didn’t trust him or his fancy French food. She ignored the crystal flute Phillipe filled with something golden and bubbly poured from a dark wine bottle and instead drank from the water glass. “What sort of diet? Atkins? South Beach?”
“An unvarying one.” He looked as if he would say more, and then his head turned away. “The first course is shrimp rémoulade, I believe.”
She jabbed her fork into a plump, pink shrimp and took a test nibble, startled when the spicy sauce bit back. “Oh, hot.”
As she sucked in air to cool the burn, the savory taste spread over her tongue. “But, wow, great.”
“Save room for dessert,” Cyprien advised her.
The meal was beyond delicious. Phillipe served each course in silence while Cyprien pointed out some of the differences between French and Creole cuisine. Alex noticed that he paused at times and seemed to be listening to her eat. She stayed quiet until Phillipe placed a hefty slice of a familiar dessert on her plate and poured a buttery sauce over it.
“Hey, I haven’t had bread pudding since I was a kid.” She took a bite and nearly moaned. “Omigod.” Phillipe stepped forward and tried to take her plate, and she slapped the back of his knuckles. “Back off, Goliath.”
Phillipe glowered at her and tried to take the dessert again, until Cyprien raised a hand.
“
C’est délicieux
.” To Alex, Cyprien said, “He thought perhaps you did not like it.”
She curled a hand around the plate and gave the seneschal a direct look. “Mine.”
Phillipe stepped back to his place by the wall and tried not to look pleased.
“What made you decide to specialize in reconstructive surgery?” Cyprien asked.
She shrugged before she remembered that the gesture was wasted on him. “Good money.”
The scar tissue across his forehead shifted. “With the number of charity cases you treat, I doubt that.”
Cyprien wasn’t making polite chitchat now; he really wanted to know. In a way, that curiosity was more invasive than his kidnapping her—which reminded her, she was the man’s prisoner—and that spoiled everything. She pushed away the remainder of the bread pudding. “All you want is my speed, not my life story.”
The misshapen head inclined her way. “I would still like to know why you became what you are.”
She sipped some water. “We had a gardener, this old Polish guy named Stash. He was strong as a bull but a wizard with flowers, and he could grow anything.”
“He was kind to you?”
“Not particularly. He grumbled whenever I played in the garden and told me not to touch anything.” She wanted the wine now, wanted the warmth to thaw the ice inside her, but she wouldn’t let herself drink it. Not here, not with him. “Stash had a big red nose with a sore on it that wouldn’t heal. By the time he saw a doctor, it was too late. It was melanoma—skin cancer—and it was bad. His nose had to be amputated.”
Cyprien made no crass comment, or any sound at all. He simply sat and listened.
“Stash came back to work with a big bandage over his face. Then he had to wear a prosthetic nose.” She remembered how it had looked on his weather-beaten face, and the red, angry flesh around it. “Kids aren’t very nice to old men, and some of our neighbors’ brats came to the fence and called Stash names, like he was a monster.”
“Did you do the same?”
“Nope. Once I saw him take off the fake nose to wipe some sweat away. I told him he just looked like a jack-o’-lantern, and he should take off his
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