Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
I watch as he cuts into the tamale—but the fork passes right through the food. What? How can he eat it if he can’t even touch it?
But the Necro Don doesn’t seem bothered. He makes a slow, deliberate motion as if cutting, as then as if lifting a bite, even though the fork tines go through the substance like mist.
Then he brings the empty fork to the skull-mask and for a moment, the air ripples.
And a chunk of the ghostly tamale the exact size of the one he was “cutting” vanishes from the plate, as if it’s being consumed by something I can’t see.
I sit very still, fighting the urge to stare as he lifts a ghostly orange section to the teeth of his mask and it disappears as well. Apparently, he is consuming the food—though it’s not clear if he’s chewing and swallowing or just simply inhaling the semi-transparent food.
I do my very best to concentrate on my own plate, spooning the delicious soup to my mouth with a silver spoon shaped like an elegant clam shell.
Nope, nothing creepy here, I tell myself. Everything is totally fine. Just having dinner with a death lord who eats the concept of food.
Lucian begins speaking as if everything is normal—and maybe it is—for the Shadow Realm.
“We should discuss Kael,” he says to his guest, calmly, slicing into his blood-carpaccio with a silver knife. “His reach is growing. It would be most distressing for all of us if he overstepped his bounds.”
Don Malthus’s skull tilts, candlelight skating down the long, bone-white surface.
“The Demon Don always grows greedy. It is not in the nature of lust to be satisfied.”
“And Corvin Nox, the Don of the Savage Den,” Lucian continues. “He’s been raiding border passages…testing gates. Sending his Shifters where they don’t belong.”
Don Malthus’s skeletal fingers tap once on the table, making a single, sharp sound.
“Violence,” he murmurs. “It is his language—the only language he knows, I fear.”
Lucian’s gaze hardens.
“Then we speak it back to him—strategically, of course.”
“Of course,” Don Malthus says, inclining his skull mask in agreement.
I glance between them, my heart thudding in my chest. I see what I’ve been drawn into here—Vampire and Necromancer Mafia alliances. Not to mention Demon Dons and Shifter raids and who the hell knows what else? The whole Shadow Realm is like a chessboard with the players constantly attacking and opposing each other.
And I’m… sitting here in a fancy dress I didn’t buy, eating squash soup like I’m really some kind of Queen, I think randomly. How in the hell did this happen to me? Oh, right—Lucian.
Don Malthus turns his skull-mask toward me, freezing my thoughts in my head.
“Tell me, human,” he says politely. “In your realm… do your kings make alliances in similar fashion as we of the Shadow Realm?”
I set my spoon down carefully.
“Well, most countries don’t really have kings anymore,” I say. “But… yes. People with power band together against people they don’t like.”
“Or sometimes the people you don’t like come to…other ends,” the Necro Don remarks darkly. “I assume you were pleased with the fate of your over-zealous coworker?”
“I…um…” My throat is suddenly so dry it’s hard to speak.
Lucian lets out a low sound that might be a chuckle.
“The human who dared to touch my lovely queen got what was coming to him. And yes, we were most pleased,” he says, speaking for me.
I hope I won’t have to say anything because if I open my mouth, I’m not sure what might come out. But just then, the second course arrives, saving me. And once again, all three of us have something different.
For Lucian—a shallow bowl holding something like blood consommé—clear and dark, and shimmering like garnet. Floating in it are tiny dumplings, black as night, and thin slices of some pale root vegetable—maybe something like turnip or radish. The scent is complex—rich, savory, metallic and spiced—like expensive steak and cinnamon had a dangerous baby.
In front of me, a servant places a plate of roasted chicken with crisp skin, laid over wild rice with herbs. There’s a side of glazed carrots and roasted figs to accompany it. The figs smell sweet and smoky, and they’ve taken on a jammy consistency I really like.
For Don Malthus the servants bring another semi-transparent dish—this one looks like a Day of the Dead offering. I see pale sugar skulls made of mist with ghostly marigold petals scattered over them. There’s also a translucent cup of something that resembles pale hot cocoa—the steam rises from it in slow, lazy spirals that give just the faintest whiff of chocolate.
Don Malthus “eats” again—the food fading from his plate as if swallowed by the air and I try not to shiver as I watch him from the corner of my eye. My own food is delicious, but I just can’t give it the attention it deserves—this situation is too damn strange. Though I guess maybe if I can’t get out of here, I’ll probably get used to these diplomatic dinners, serving as Lucian’s queen and greeting the other Dons who will be his guests.