Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

Fred shrugged philosophically. “More for me.”

He ambled over and switched on the lamp beside the bed, while the other two vamps looked around. Probably wondering what I’d done with Rosier. They apparently decided that I’d either shifted him somewhere or thrown him off the building, and neither seemed to worry them overly much.

They left.

Fred started divvying up food.

I went to get a couple of towels—for hygiene’s sake; the bedspread was already done for—and to check out the bathroom. But all I found was a mountain of extra linens and a plastic bag of the tiny toiletries the hotel gave out, for the girls, I guessed. But no phantom lovers.

Sometimes a dream is just a dream, I told myself, feeling a little embarrassed. And a lot hungry. I grabbed some towels off the heap and went to claim my share of the bounty.

And discovered that Fred—good old Fred—had outdone himself. I helped him lay out the picnic, then climbed into the small amount of space left by the headboard, my stomach insisting that I was starving the whole time. I must have looked it, too, because Fred generously donated a tempura shrimp roll to my plate, although he was stingy with the wasabi.

He saw my face and rolled his eyes. “Don’t pout. Anyway, this place makes their own. None of that fake shit.”

“Fake?”

“Didn’t you know?” He plopped a much larger portion on his own plate, which he totally didn’t need because vampire senses are stronger than humans’.

“Know what?” I asked, with my mouth full.

“That the wasabi in most sushi places isn’t real. It’s horseradish they’ve doctored up with green food coloring and some mustard.”

“The bastards.”

“Tell me about it. But this place has the genuine article, and it’s hot. So be careful.”

I was careful. It was delicious. I happily ate my way through the tempura with a burning tongue and watering eyes before starting on the bright red tandoori. It was good, too, falling-off-the-bone tender and oniony and spicy and . . . yum.

I came out of a food-induced haze a few moments later to find that something else had appeared on my plate. It wasn’t chicken tikka. “What?” I asked, around a mouthful of awesomeness.

“Samosa.”

I poked at the little fried ball with a fork. Some nasty green stuff oozed out through a break in the breading. And, okay, ewww.

“It’s peas,” Fred told me impatiently.

“Peas?”

“You know, small and green? They’re these things called vegetables.”

“Very funny.” I pushed the pea thing over to the side of my plate.

Fred pushed it back. “Eat it.”

“I don’t want to eat it.”

“It’s good for you.”

“Then you eat it.”

“I don’t need veggies.”

“You don’t need tikka masala, either,” I pointed out, although a bunch of it had ended up on his plate. Along with most of the naan. I stole a piece back.

“There’s plenty left,” he said indignantly. “And you have to eat it.”

“Why?” I eyed the pea thing suspiciously. I wouldn’t put it past Marco to drug me. He wasn’t supposed to, since it interfered with my ability to access my power. But after the last few days, I could see him deciding that it was the lesser of two evils.