Sunday's Child(8)
Andor had at first protested against Nicholas’s single restriction on his plan, but the saint had been adamant. “You will not engage in their wars as a fighter, Andor. If I find out you have, I’ll send you back to Ljósálfrheimr where you can fight for your life against Dagrun and Alfr.”
Andor had reluctantly agreed, and in the centuries that followed, he didn’t take up a weapon as a warrior for someone else’s war. That didn’t mean he didn’t take up a weapon or end up in war. Time, magic and curiosity had set him on many paths, and he learned many things. He’d been a battlefield medic, Bow Street Runner, wagon train scout, and a bodyguard. He pursued other occupations and vocations as well, some far more peaceful, like the current one as a preparator.
Humans lived short, intense lives, compressed into a handful of years the nearly immortal ljósálfar considered less than a breath of time. After almost ten centuries, he probably knew more about humans than any of his kin, and they still puzzled him mightily. He gazed at Claire, with her stiff posture and cool expression, and wondered what had made this previous child of magic into such a cynical adult.
“If you have lunch with me today, I’ll pick up the tab,” he said. “As far as the translations, I will be happy to help you regardless of your answer to my invitation.”
She winced. “I’m sorta clumsy at this—”
He held up a hand to forestall the apology hovering on her lips. “It’s fine, Claire.” He liked the feel of her name on his tongue. “Have you been to Paulie’s?”
Her eyes lit up. “Every chance I get. Great food.”
They settled on a time to go. Claire gave Andor a small wave before she headed back to the lab. “See you in a couple of hours.”
He inclined his head. “Claire.” He watched her walk away, her long strides carrying her out of his sight in moments. A hint of the soap she used on her skin still lingered in the air, a touch of spring in autumn. A tide of heat in his blood.
5
Claire was certain she’d made a terrible mistake. She could argue that asking Andor Hjalmarson for translation help had simply been a request rooted in the pursuit of professional efficiency.
A louder, more honest part of herself called bullshit on that.
And it was. While Andor’s fluency in Armenian certainly came in handy in helping her with some of her provenance research, it had been a far more convenient way for her to spend time with and get to know him without ever mentioning the dreaded, painfully awkward word “date.”
A good plan, but it didn’t take long for her to see the major flaw—Andor himself. Handsome, intelligent, well-read and charming without the arrogance and hubris that often came along with the positive traits, he seemed too good to be true. Claire entertained more than a few stray thoughts that she was meeting a serial killer for lunch or a man who harbored a secret, unnatural affection for livestock.
A week of lunch meetings every day blunted her paranoia but did a fine job of escalating the gossip among her co-workers. She shrugged off the sly glances and smiles that followed them anytime she and Andor met, whether for lunch, in a meeting or just passing in the halls. Once the rumor mill cranked up, it was hard to stop it. Trying to stop it just fueled the speculations, and she refused to feed that monster.
She succumbed to her own suspicious curiosity today. It was their fifth consecutive lunch meeting (she refused to call it a date), and Andor had driven her to a Vietnamese noodle house perched on the edge of downtown Houston that locals praised as having the best pho and banh mi sandwiches in the city. Andor placed their order in Vietnamese, surprising the woman behind the counter.
Unlike her, Claire no longer gaped at Andor. She had learned from their previous outings that he was fluent in several languages beyond Armenian. They placed their order, found seats at a table and settled into one of the easy conversations that had Claire trying not to check her phone or the clock on her PC every five seconds before lunch time.
At least that’s what happened before this lunch. This time, Claire strangled two napkins into mangled wads of paper under Andor’s curious gaze. “Can I ask you a question?”
His broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Of course.” He sipped from his water glass.
“Have you ever killed anyone for fun or had an affair with a sheep?”
Andor sputtered and choked. His glass hit the table surface at the same time his knees knocked the underside in reflexive shock. The action rocketed the glass across the slick surface. Claire caught it in one hand, her quick reflexes the only things that saved her lap from an ice water dousing. She thrust one of the crumpled napkins at him. He snatched it and coughed into the crinkled folds until his eyes streamed tears and a flush reddened his face and neck. He motioned for his glass. She handed it back to him, wincing as he struggled for enough breath to sip the water and calm the cough. If he walked out right now and stranded her at the restaurant, she wouldn’t blame him.
Instead, he wiped his eyes and leveled a baffled look on her. “No to both questions,” he said between shallow gasps.
Claire didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the heat blooming on her face turned her as red as Andor. She didn’t know which was the worse blush—hers for mortification or his for near-asphyxiation of which she was the culprit.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “That came out wrong.”