Gabriel's Horn. Alex Archer

spill it.

      Garin grinned a little. “Nervous?”

      “No.” Annja paused. “Yes.”

      After a brief hesitation, he said, “Me, too.”

      “You?” Annja raised an eyebrow.

      Garin shrugged. “A little, perhaps. I have to admit, the feeling is quite unexpected.”

      “Just because I’m a little overwhelmed doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself,” Annja warned him.

      “Of course not.” Garin waved the thought away.

      “In case you get any ideas.”

      “If getting ideas was going to get me in trouble, that dress would make me a dead man.”

      Annja didn’t know how to respond. For a time, neither one of them spoke.

      THE RESTAURANT WAS NESTLED between business offices downtown. After Garin helped her from the limousine, Annja gazed at the hand-lettered sign above the door. It read Keshet. A homemade sign tacked above an entrance that looked as if it let out onto an alley wasn’t exactly awe-inspiring.

      “Is something wrong?” Garin asked.

      “After the buildup of the dress and the limo, this isn’t quite what I’d expected,” Annja admitted.

      Garin grinned. “You were expecting me to take you to one of those flashy restaurants.”

      “Maybe.”

      “Are you disappointed?”

      Annja gazed at him warily and wondered if this was some kind of trick. “Should I be?”

      “If you are, I’ll buy you dinner in any restaurant of your choice. In the world.” Garin offered his arm again. When Annja took it, he led her toward the burly doorman.

      “Good evening, Mr. Braden,” the man said in English.

      “Good evening,” Garin responded.

      The doorman opened the door. Annja turned and found Garin almost filling the tiny hallway that led from the door. Muted lights illuminated the way over a plain concrete floor. She joined him.

      Another doorman opened the next door. When she saw inside, Annja was even more surprised.

      The restaurant was even smaller than she’d imagined. A quick estimate of the tables in the room meant that fewer than fifty people could sit in the room at one time.

      Instead of a wall separating the cooking area from the diners, the kitchen was exposed for all to see. A squat woman in her late sixties ran the kitchen staff with the ironhanded control of a Marine Corps drill instructor. Her gray hair was cut short. She wore black pants and a green blouse with the sleeves pushed up past her elbows. The kitchen staff responded to her orders like a well-oiled unit.

      “Mr. Braden.” A young hostess with olive-colored skin and a perfect smile joined them. “It’s been too long since you’ve visited us.”

      “Merely growing my appetite for Mama’s cooking,” Garin said.

      “She was excited to learn that you would be coming.” The hostess led the way to the only table in the room that wasn’t occupied.

      Located at center stage, the table had a perfect view of the activity in the kitchen as cooks worked the stovetop and kept bread rotating through the ovens. Garin took Annja’s chair and seated her.

      “Thank you,” Annja said.

      “You’re welcome.” Garin sat beside her at the table so he could watch the kitchen.

      After taking their drink order, the hostess returned with water for Annja and wine for Garin. “Mama will be with you in a moment.”

      “Thank you, Petra,” Garin said.

      “Of course, Mr. Braden.” The young woman’s fingers trailed softly across Garin’s when she handed him his glass.

      Annja was surprised at the sudden jealousy that struck her. She took a deep breath and focused on the kitchen. It’s not jealousy, she told herself. No one would like watching her date get hit on by another woman.

      And even if Garin wasn’t a real date, he was accompanying her tonight. There were lines that weren’t supposed to be crossed.

      Servers brought heaping plates out to the guests, who clapped and exclaimed appreciatively in a half-dozen languages. The diners still waiting looked on in envy.

      Annja’s stomach growled in anticipation. The smell of the food was divine. The aroma of fresh-baked bread permeated the air.

      “Hungry?” Garin asked.

      “Famished,” Annja replied. “So what’s on the menu?”

      “I don’t know.” Garin sipped his wine. “Mama arrives in the morning and decides then. She could walk into any kitchen in the world and get a job.”

      If she had to make a decision to believe that based on the smells in the dining room, Annja would have. She also noticed the pride in Garin’s voice when he talked about the woman.

      Mama left the kitchen area with two salads and walked to their table and put them down. Garin stood immediately and hugged the woman. He dwarfed her in size.

      “Ah,” Mama said, turning to Annja, “and you must be Annja Creed.” Her eyes glittered as she surveyed Annja. In just that brief second, Annja knew that her measure had been taken, and she had no clue if she’d been found acceptable or wanting.

      8

      “It’s very nice to meet you,” Annja said, not at all certain if the statement was true. Still, she smiled and made the best of it she could.

      “I have heard so much about you.” Mama spoke with a thick accent. “This one—” she poked Garin in the chest with her forefinger “—I know him a long time. And before him, his father.”

      Father? Annja gazed at Garin in idle speculation. “Do you mean Roux?”

      Mama waved that away. “No. I know Roux, as well.” She shrugged. “I like him okay, but he can be an old goat.”

      “Roux tried to cook in Mama’s kitchen one night,” Garin explained.

      Mama held a hand to her ample breast. “He has so much nerve, that one.” She whispered behind her hand. “That was long ago. When I was much younger and more beautiful. He also pinched my bottom.” She rolled her eyes in feigned shock. “I slap his face for him, I tell you.”

      Annja chuckled. She knew how Roux was around women. And she knew how women were around Roux. They seemed drawn to each other.

      “No, I am talking about Garin’s father. The first Garin. Did you ever meet him?”

      Annja looked at Garin and realized that the woman had known Garin in her much younger days. Since Garin didn’t age, he had to disappear from his previous lives after a few decades.

      “No,” Annja said. “I never did.”

      “This one—” Mama pinched Garin’s cheek “—he is so much like his father. Handsome and powerful. This one, he could be a twin brother to his father.”

      Annja nodded. She wondered how much longer Garin—and Roux—would be able to keep up the pretense of being normal humans. Not dying in an age filled with computers and record archiving—including digital images—was going to be harder to cover up than in centuries past.

      Garin gazed down at the woman, and for a moment Annja thought she could see honest emotion in the man’s eyes. She wondered again how anyone could live five hundred years—and in Roux’s case probably more—and have any emotions left.

      “This one, though,” Mama said, “he is not so much like his father. He is