“Kauss.”
Her smile does not flicker. “Mr. Lenrog is expecting you.”
Of course he is.
She leads me through the dining room. Conversations do not stop, but they alter. Small shifts. Quick glances. A woman in a silver dress pauses with her glass halfway to her mouth. An Alzhon with bioluminescent blue hair and polished cybernetic fingers turns one eye toward me, then resumes speaking with his companion. Two men near the bar look at my hands, then away.
I am a weapon carried into a room that prefers knives hidden in sleeves.
Savio Lenrog sits at a half-moon booth in the far corner beneath an old oil painting of a coastal village. The booth gives him a view of the entrance, kitchen hall, bar, and front windows. He chose it because he understands rooms. Two guards stand far enough away to pretend they are not guards. Another sits alone near the piano with a glass of water he never drinks.
Lenrog rises when I approach.
That surprises me.
He is older than I expected. Late fifties, perhaps, though humans age with uneven cruelty. His hair is silver at the temples, black elsewhere, combed neatly back. His suit is dark brown, fitted perfectly, with no visible ostentation except a gold ring on one hand. His face is handsome in the way carved stone is handsome, all controlled lines and patient eyes. He smiles as though he has waited years for this meeting and finds the delay amusing.
“Kauss,” he says. “Thank you for coming.”
“I was told refusal was unwise.”
His smile deepens. “That was Arturo’s phrasing, I imagine. He has a gift for making courtesy sound like a threat.”
“It was a threat.”
“Yes.” Lenrog gestures toward the booth. “But courteous.”
I do not sit immediately.
His eyes flick toward my posture. Amusement, not fear. “If I intended an attack, I would not invite you to my favorite restaurant. Sit. Please. You make the staff nervous when you loom, and they are trying very hard not to show it.”
I sit.
The booth creaks but holds. The table is polished dark wood, set with blue glassware, folded linen, and a small dish of sliced limes beside a bowl of red sauce. A server appears soundlessly.
“Anything to drink?” Lenrog asks.
“No.”
“Water, then.” He looks at the server. “For both of us.”
The server leaves.
I keep my hands visible on the table. “Say what you want.”
Lenrog sits across from me, unhurried. “Direct. I respect that.”
“You did not invite me here to respect me.”
“No. I invited you because you assaulted a small army of idiots in an abandoned zoo and somehow managed not to kill anyone.” He lifts one brow slightly. “Do you know how rare that is?”
“I made a promise.”
“To the baker.”
My fingers flex once against the table before I stop them.
Lenrog sees. Of course he sees.
