The Tenth Legion (Book 6, Progeny of Evolution) by Mike Arsuaga Page A

make him beg for it. Judging from his scent, that wouldn’t be
hard to accomplish.
    “Well, you
still look yummy.” Smiling, he added, “I’m glad you decided to
accept the invitation.”
    Floubert’s , a
small place with twelve tables accompanied by a bar containing room
for maybe six, sat deep within the cloisters of a high-end section
of town. Upon entering, Lorna discovered the staff outnumbered the
customers. Rumor had it reservations were booked up to a year in
advance—a favorite of, as the saying goes, the rich and famous. The
restaurant used linen with real china and silverware, not the
plastic, much of it recycled, that had come into general use
everywhere else during the last seventy years.
    A second after
they entered, a statuesque blonde in a black cocktail dress
appeared at their side to relieve Jerry of his coat and Lorna of
her shawl. Immediately, the black tuxedoed concierge, carrying
bound leather-covered menus, took over. At their table, a waiter
stood at attention behind each chair. One assiduously assisted
Lorna with seating, while the other limited himself to pulling out
Jerry’s chair and standing by to insure a safe landing. Besides the
humans, Lorna caught the scents of several vampires in the
room.
    The table was
tucked into a secluded corner near the front, one of the more
desirable locations. A young woman lit a five-candled candelabrum,
placing it in the center of the table, and dimmed the house lights
in the immediate area before leaving. Candlelight danced in the
faceted crystal of the glasses, reflecting in Jerry’s eyes, giving
them richer color.
    “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