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Trine
Iget there an hour early.
First, to beat Orlando traffic, but mostly because if I don’t get there early, I know I’m going to freak the fuck out and not show up. Something about not showing would feel like they’re winning, and I don’tlose. Not if I can help it.
I circle the block a couple of times, finally finding a parking spot too far away from the restaurant. By the time I get there, my hair is all messed up and I don’t look nearly as put together as I did when I left my apartment.
Other than the staff, there’s nobody else here. And it’s easy to spot the exorcists, both because they’re sitting by the window around a large, wooden circular table, and also because they’re incredibly hard to look away from.
Sunlight streams through the window, blurring their features. From where I’m standing, at the front of the restaurant, I can see that they’re having an animated conversation. This is nothing like how they interacted when I woke up, in that godforsaken room with the popcorn ceiling and the lumpy mattress. They look like old friends catching up.
One of them spots me.
The priest.
He wasn’t fucking cosplaying—it takes a second for it to sink in, but he’s wearing all black, a completely white collar wrapped around his thick neck.
"Miss?" the hostess says, and for the first time since I got there, I realize someone’s speaking to me. The hostess flashes me a smile, and I try my best to smile back at her, the muscles in my face barely responding. I look down at her name tag. Her name is Chelsea. And she’s losing patience with me, despite the customer service face she has on. "How many people in your party?"
"Oh, I…they’re already here," I say, looking past her at the table the men are sitting at.
She narrows her eyes, her smile turning into a grin. "Damn, girl," she says, her expression crumbling when she sees the surprise on my face. "I’m sorry, I’m really tired, I…"
"It’s okay," I reply, smiling back at her. Her comment almost makes me laugh, which helps calm my nerves a little. I inch closer to her so I can whisper. "Whoever is our server, can you tell them to keep the drinks coming? Just a rum and coke, but…"
"Yep. I got you."
"Thanks, Chelsea," I say.
She smiles at me again and I slowly—deliberately slowly—make my way toward the circular table next to the window. The men quiet down as they see me approach and I grab the inside of my denim jacket and try to pull it close over my chest, though it’s too small for me to button it. I tilt my chin up, purposefully making eye contact despite the feeling of dread uncurling in my stomach.
"You’re early," Mikhail says. He stands so he can move a chair aside for me. He’s much taller than I remember, wiry, athletic. Broad shouldered, long legs. He’s built like a dancer, a swirl of black ink wrapping around his forearm and disappearing up his sleeve.
Reminds me of my midnight visitor. It makes me shiver.
"So are you," I say, taking a seat. I should probably stop staring at him. I sit, turning to face him, and mouth a quiet "thank you."
"You’re welcome," he says. He walks around the desk to sit at the other side, and smirks at me as he interlaces his fingers in front of his face. He’s wearing…nail polish? Sparkly and black. His nails are surprisingly long.
It’s not what I expected. And it’s kind of hot. And if he wants to—nope. Not letting myself think that. I know better than to fraternize with dangerous men. I force myself to look into his eyes. They’re dark brown, earthy with splashes of gold.
He smirks, one dimple appearing on his left cheek, and I feel my cheeks burn as I realize he knows exactly what I’m doing. He leans back. "You should order some food," he says. "We’ll likely be here for a while."
"Why here?" I ask, letting my gaze dart to his right, to the man who isn’t a priest. He’s extraordinarily good-looking, but I haven’t even looked at him because he’s less tall and imposing than the other two. High-cheekbones and dark eyes frame a handsome face. Thick, black-rimmed glasses sit high on his nose, his skin more golden bronze than pale white.
"Because it’s nice," Mikhail said. "And they won’t kick us out for taking too much time."
"How much time do you expect to take?" I ask, alarm tinting my voice.
The man in the glasses clears his throat. "What my associate means to say is that you won’t feel rushed," he says, and his voice is velvety smooth, his tone even. I can detect the traces of an accent, but it’s so mild I think it might be my imagination. He speaks formally, slowly, like he’s trying to make sure I understand everything he’s saying. "It’s of the utmost importance to us that you have the space and time you need to process this event."
"So you chose a seafood restaurant?"
Maybe I’m insane, but I think I see the hint of a smile on Glasses’ face.
"I chose this place because I assumed you wanted somewhere public and reputable," Mikhail says. "But I’m, you know, happy to change venue, if that’s what you’d like."
"This is fine," I reply, grabbing the dark cloth napkin and smoothing it over my legs. The AC is on full blast, and it’s cold in here. I hug myself, the denim barely enough to stop the cold blast from penetrating my skin and chilling my bones.
"Okay," Mikhail replies. "Let’s start with introductions. I’m Misha…"
"Demonhunter, I know."
He smiles. "And these are my associates, Father Luke Salinas and Doctor Rei Woods," he says, his head slowly swiveling from one side to the other as if he needed to point out which man is which. "And we’re here, Trine, because we want to talk to you about your exorcism."
