Heart's Price (MxM)

Chapter 35

Dinner is a strange, tense affair.

I feel as if I've been dropped in the midst of a bunch of displaced royals, who all hate one another and would gladly slip poison in the others' drinks given the chance, but who also insist on abiding by an outdated set of strict manners. It lends everything they do or say the veneer of pleasantness, but behind it lurk venom and deadly threats.

Thankfully, Ambrose has no patience for it, and relieves my growing tension with little glances and expressions, smirks and smiles and lifted brows, making it clear that the meal about to be served is not the one he's looking forward to. I begin to understand his lack of enthusiasm at the promise of food when Mathilda's hired chef serves the first course and I'm presented with a plate of escargot.

Wolves do not eat snails.

The dishes that follow are little better. There's a braised quail I don't know what to do with, a cold pureed soup I'm afraid to eat, and finally something that looks promisingly like steak until Ambrose meets my eyes and mouths, 'veal.'

It's not like I'm a vegetarian werewolf or anything. That oxymoron belongs to my brother Monty, who cries at the nature programs when the zebras don't make it. I just don't like the idea of eating another animal's babies.

By the time the meal ends, I've eaten a few bits of lettuce and a piece of bread. The others take no notice, thankfully, except for Brutus, who eyes my untouched veal with a covetous leer.

"Not hungry, eh?" he asks. "You're not one o' them 'animal rights' people are yeh?"

"I think animals should be well-cared for and treated with kindness," I reply evenly, glad that my stammer seems to have skipped dinner as well, "even the ones we intend to eat."

He eyes me beadily and reaches for my plate, pausing with his fingers on its edge. "You mind?"

"Help yourself." I shrug.

Pulling it towards him, he digs in with a show of relish.

Ignoring him, I attempt to engage Penelope in conversation, and quickly find myself grateful that I've eaten very little after all. It's clear she has a morbid fascination with the macabre, and takes great delight in sharing it. I, on the other hand, could have done without the detailed and enthusiastic description of what exactly 'putrefaction' entails.

Mathilda holds court at the table's other end, and Ambrose says little, except to trade barbs with Brutus from time to time. As dinner at last concludes, he leans back in his chair, the collar of his shirt open, his sleeves rolled up and his hair loose, looking very much the rogue. He also looks distinctly unhappy, his mood having gradually darkened over the course of the meal.

"Well, I don't know 'bout the rest o' you sods, but I'm ready for a real drink," Brutus says, downing the last of the red wine the chef had paired with the main course and pushing back his chair. "I imagine Augustus will join me, eh Auggie? Though 's usual, you've had more 'n you should already."

"Leave him alone, Brutus," Mathilda snaps. "You're two sheets to the wind yourself, and as much as we may despise one another, we're all in the same boat, and if it sinks we'll sink together. Passing out drunk will serve no one—least of all yourself. August and Aileen are the only ones of us with their relics not yet stolen. We must stay alert for their sakes—which, unless you've forgotten, are our own sakes as well."

Brutus blinks at her in surprise, his ruddy face darkening to a color closer to puce, though from what emotion is difficult to tell.

"As you say, mother," he drawls, after a tense few seconds tick by. "Well, I'll retire to the libr'ry then. Join me if you like. I imagine one small drink won't do any harm—or is that what you've been telling yourself for half a century now, Auggie?"