The Tenth Legion (Book 6, Progeny of Evolution) (7 page)

“Oh, my gosh!”
Lorna gasped in a whisper. “That’s Lea Lorenzo.”

Jerry turned
with the casual air a regular customer would show, of someone used
to hanging out with the visiting celebrities, but it was all
bullshit. Such an exclusive place wouldn’t give a mid-level
attorney like him the time of day. Someone who, as ex-recreational
sailor Mike might have said “drew a lot more water” arranged
things. Perhaps the reclusive Ed White? After all, his company
owned the place.

“Yes.” Jerry
cast a crinkly-fingered wave in her direction. “I’m told she’s in
town to cut a new album.”

Lea returned
the wave with a vague smile, gazing at them with dreamy detachment
through pinhole-sized pupils.

Her
celeb-in-the-flesh was high as a kite.
No longer impressed, Lorna turned away.

With eyes
beaming like a child’s on Christmas morning, Jerry turned back to
Lorna. “Isn’t this great?”

Lorna fingered
the rich weave of the tablecloth. “How did you get a reservation
here?”

“Don’t look a
gift horse in the mouth. Enjoy the moment.”

The answer
didn’t satisfy, but before she could dig farther the plump
sommelier appeared. He wore a red vest and white brocade shirt, set
off by jet-black trousers. Jerry chose a bottle of Robichaux.
Anyone in the squad room, even some of the bums in the holding
cells, acknowledged New York wine didn’t get any better than
that.

“Robichaux
’70. Excellent choice.” The wine steward nodded and then made a
crisp departure.

“Lorna, I know
you normally don’t drink alcohol, but tonight’s a special occasion.
Perhaps a glass?”

Beaming at
him, she showed small teeth made bright by the candlelight.
Overwhelmed by the effect of the luxurious surroundings, she forgot
to follow up on her question about the reason of the special
occasion. Soon, the promise of providing the Coven International
contact information he’d offered in his note also faded to
unimportance.

“Sure, why
not.”

A second wine
steward, dressed in less formal professional attire, poured the
ceremonial taste for approval. Jerry made an elaborate show of
swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. After a pause,
he consigned the rest of the bottle over for the table’s
consumption. Lorna wondered what would happen if he sent it back,
picturing the sommelier storming out of the wine cellar, meat
cleaver in hand to defend the honor of the Hudson Valley
vineyards.

Jerry took the
bottle, insisting on filling her glass himself. When he leaned
across, Lorna took a moment to appreciate the hard contours of his
taut male form. Resolve to make him beg faltered in direct
proportion the hardening of her nipples under the bodice of the
silk blouse.

From the
first sip, the wine seeped through her veins, warming her all over.
It had been a long time since she’d had any, but she didn’t
remember it ever affecting her so fast. The waiter came alongside
to take their order
. Floubert’s
had
one of the finest and most complete lycan and vampire oriented
menus in the whole region. Only DelHomme’s in New Orleans rivaled
it. Coven International owned that one, too.

“Petite filet
mignon with capers,” Lorna said.

“The Mutton
Bilbao is to die for,” Jerry suggested.

Lorna nodded
in polite disagreement. “I’m a beef girl, remember?” The evening
had been perfect until he decided to order for her. Presumptive
males rubbed her the wrong way. The wine must’ve brought it out in
him. Jerry wasn’t the only one the vine was causing to behave out
of character. She too, was quick to draw a line in the sand. “It’s
not like you ever eat any of this woofer food,” she found herself
saying in a loud whisper from across the table.

At her use of
a word known to start blood feuds in some quarters, Jerry’s festive
manner vanished. “You should be careful about saying such things.”
The ominous tone made her realize the gaffe she’d made.

The lycan
waiter remained immobile beside them, rooted to the Mexican floor
tiles. If he heard, he showed no sign.

Lorna, now
anxious to get clear of the situation, glanced up at Jerry, back at
her menu, and then shrugged. “I’ll have the mutton dish.”

The waiter
scribbled on a note pad, complimenting their choices before
departing. “Another glass?” Jerry offered, smiling.

“Young man,
are you plying me with liquor to have your way?” The incident, now
forgotten, faded into the aromatic vapors of the wine.

In the
candlelight, he seemed to blush. With downcast eyes, he smiled
reflectively, answering as if speaking to the elaborate fan fold of
the napkin in front of him. “I know better than to think I can get
away with that.” Raising the bottle, he refilled her glass.

The wine
tasted sweet, warming her throat on the way down. “Well, mister,
play your cards right and we’ll be knocking boots ‘til the wee
hours.”

* * * *

Jerry had
nailed it. The mutton was to die for. Lorna knew the blandness of
her kind’s cuisine when compared with human. Anything more than
sparing amounts of most seasonings can overload and, over time,
ruin the palates of The Others. The old saying “Raw is best” was
true, but catering to a growing appetite for diversity since Coming
Out had become an expanding industry. The best restaurants in
cities with large vampire or lycan populations, like Orlando or New
Orleans, created tasty, popular recipes, some of which a few humans
found attractive.

“You know,”
Lorna said, nearing the end of her entrée accompanied by an
uncharacteristic the second glass of wine. “The last time I drank
like this was the night I celebrated emergence. I must have screwed
twenty guys.”

Being well
familiar with the early emergence of lycans, Jerry took the remark
in stride. Then he glanced around in a manner, suggestive of
expecting someone. Lorna wondered if he had another surprise in
store. Was this all a prelude to the appearance of a certain tall,
ginger haired CEO to show his gratitude in person?

But that
wasn’t it. “Well,” Jerry said, focusing her attention back on them.
“You’ll do just one tonight.”

“
I don’t
know.” She smiled, arching a teasing eyebrow. “The bus boy
is
pretty cute…”

A waiter
topped off Jerry’s coffee. Lorna splurged in another direction of
culinary exploration by taking a few bites of dessert, an apricot
sorbet. Dimly, she contemplated the gastronomical price for all of
this indulgence. Tomorrow, they’d better keep the path from her
office to the bathroom clear.

“
Jerry,
tonight’s been beyond wonderful.” They were winding things up. With
finishing the second glass of wine, the ambience of
Floubert’s
,
along with the wonderful meal, absorbed her.

Jerry got to
his feet.

When Lorna
tried to rise, she stumbled slightly. The room began to spin.
“Jerry, something’s wrong. This is way beyond feeling buzzed.”

While her mind
moved in slow motion, waiters flashed to each side keeping her
upright. Acting like nothing odd happened, Jerry attended to the
routine of retrieving their things from the coat check. The
behavior in no way reassured her.

Stepping into
the chill of the February night didn’t have the expected sobering
effect. While Jerry summoned the car, the two waiters assisted.
They met at the vehicle. With gentle hands, like handling the
restaurant’s finest glassware, they guided her toward the massive
driver, who held the door open. Despite the effect of the wine, she
could have sworn the one who helped her out when they arrived was a
lot shorter.

“There you
go.” While checking Lorna’s position on the large, plush car seat,
Jerry smiled the crafty courtroom smile she didn’t like. Light from
the streetlamp illuminated her, along with the spacious
interior.

The waiters,
their job done, received a brush across the forehead from the hand
of the driver. Each performed a brief genuflection before returning
to the restaurant.

The little
ceremony distracted Lorna’s attention. With the driver’s
assistance, she found her seat, humming off-key the whole time.

The driver
leaned in across her. “We must buckle up, Ms. Winters.” A reddened
ham of a hand pulled the belt from its socket, around her, and into
its catch with a click. As he withdrew, she reached out, grabbing
his sleeve.

“You have a
gentle touch for a large man.” The slurred statement trailed off to
silence. Then her eyes rolled up in her head. Everything faded out
for a moment, but when the driver backed out of the car, Lorna
stirred. The world spun around her head. The sensation of just
having stepped off one of those twirling amusement park rides she
remembered from childhood dogged her. The driver, wearing a
full-length black overcoat, had to be part of an elaborate
dream.

None of this
had been real. Soon, the alarm clock would start its insane yammer,
hailing the commencement of another day. When the fog cleared,
she’d wake up in her own bed. The large man, wider across the
shoulders and a good six inches taller than Jerry, would be gone,
along with the lamp light behind him and the glimmer of yellowish
hair sitting atop the large dark silhouette—all swept away like
smoke in a breeze.

“Your work
here is complete, Mr. Pease.” The blond-haired dark mass of a man
spoke from a height, vague to her confused senses.

“Will she be
all right?” Jerry asked.

“It’s too late
to think about that. You’ve been compensated.”

“What I mean
is, you aren’t going to hurt her or anything, are you? She means
something to me.”

“I see how
much she meant to you. Your involvement is over. I’ll take it from
here.”

The image of
two men, also in black overcoats, passed before Lorna. They swept
in behind Jerry. With firm grips, they escorted him in the
direction of the restaurant while the last interior light winked
off for the night. The driver slid behind the wheel, promptly
starting the engine. After putting Jerry in a cab, the companions
joined their comrade in the front seat. The car slipped into
forward gear. The motion spurred Lorna to act. She lurched
upward.

“Jerry, me
boy, I need you. Now!” she exclaimed, forgetting she’d just seen
him depart the scene. Raising her bottom off the seat, she slipped
off hose, along with panties. The plan was to discard them
completely, but she succeeded in tangling them in her ankles.
Recognizing her readiness for sex, the three men in front exchanged
knowing glances. The one with dark hair moved to join her in the
backseat.

The tall fair
haired driver spoke up. “No, my brother, it must not be. She’s not
aware. Remember also, Father commanded she be respected.”

“Where’s my
Jerry?” Lorna demanded. “What’ve you done with him?” Armed with a
dim sense of mischief afoot, she lunged for the front seat again,
this time morphing. Then the Kutzu kicked in, and she fell back,
dead asleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
he dream returned, telling a continuing story. Episode
piled upon episode. The random order didn’t matter. Once inside,
from having experienced it so many times, she knew the events and
each character so well that picking up in the middle of one or
jumping to another didn’t confuse her, like opening a familiar book
to a random page and starting to read. But when she awoke, the
pageantry of complicated detail faded into nothing.

These dreams
differed from those Lorna experienced before emerging. The old ones
had a single character, a kind, serene woman bringing solace and
hope to her bleak life. Upon emergence, the kind lady never
returned. Then, two years ago, the new dreams re-commenced. The
woman returned, accompanied by more characters, but this time
without conversation. Lorna remained a passive observer. Although
she knew she sometimes entered the thoughts of those in the dreams,
upon waking nothing stuck.

A couple ran
through a forest on a dark, moonless night. Behind them, hundreds
of torch-bearing men pursued. Braces of fierce dogs bayed in the
distance. With the battle won, General Galba detached two cohorts
of his legion to hunt the survivors down—a thousand men accompanied
by a hundred dogs. The remaining Romans walked among the fallen,
slaughtering the wounded, and enslaving the rest.

The woman’s name was Cithara, a vampire. Her mate, Aliff,
was a lycan, but they used another term,
wolfen
.

“
In here,”
Aliff, her mate, cried out between labored breaths. With a slender
hand wrapped inside his far larger one, he pulled her toward the
side of a rock face. “I played here as a youth.” He parted some
brush, revealing the mouth of a cave. “We can hide.”

“
But the
dogs will find us,” said Cithara.

Aliff turned,
warming her with a smile. “No, the cavern is deep. Swarms of bats
live within. Their droppings will confound any tracking
animal.”

Without
another word, they scrambled through the dark maw, feeling their
way along its damp, rock-strewn, winding interior. Once, a startled
flight of bats beat at them with soft leathery wings flying by to
escape through the entrance. After the frantic departure, the cave
returned to dark silence.

“
Won’t they
alert our pursuers?” Cithara’s soft voice resounded, unnaturally
loud in the darkness.

“
No,” replied her mate in deep tones. “They will return long
before the Romans arrive.” Feeling behind him, he found a flat
rock, and they both sat. “We are safe here,
Village Girl
.”