All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [174]
Louis glanced at the Dumpster but avoided it (although old habits died hard and he was famished). Best not to tarnish his image further, however. He sniffed at his shoulder to make sure he was unscathed by the unwashed in the alley.
In truth, his dapper appearance was for once not foremost in his thoughts. That honor was reserved for his beloved Audrey.
He had been thinking of her much—too much, such that it now interfered with his normal scheming. It was painful to dwell upon her. She was so lovely. And this entire affair so charged with unexpected nauseous sentimentality.
Who could’ve ever predicted he could still be in love? Or was it lust?
No. His lust was simply (if only ever temporarily) satiated.
But there was no cure for his desires now . . . to hold her hand . . . to be with her . . . those wants never ebbed.
He hissed out a sigh of frustration. See? Such reminiscing clouded rational thoughts—interfered with his making of plans most intricate.
And that was the kernel of the matter: He had spent considerable energy on figuring out ways to increase his power, gather lands, and rule all the realms . . . but at the same time, he sought benefit for his fledgling, broken family—Audrey, Eliot, and Fiona.
Well, at least to keep them from harm.
Or, perhaps, try not to get them all killed.
Why was it so difficult to think clearly?
Direct deception and intervention had not worked. That last call to Audrey—what had he been thinking? Confessing his love like some besotted teenager? He had almost died from mortification after she had rightly hung up on him.
So, no more of that—thank you very much.
A roundabout approach was his next-best option.
Louis smoothed out his camel-hair coat, straightened his black tie, and strode from the alley’s shadow.
He surveyed the few students sitting beneath the star-covered canopied tables outside the café. One boy caught his eye, a mortal with brown hair that curled down to his shoulders. He flashed a winning smile at the waitress as she served him cocoa.
Louis recognized him from Amberflaxus’s reports. This was the mortal he’d come to see: Mitchell Stephenson.
The boy stirred the whipped cream atop his hot chocolate. There were two empty cups on the table. Was he waiting for Fiona? Young Mr. Stephenson picked up the bill, considered, and then took out some cash and set it down for the waitress.
What delightfully perfect timing.
Louis whistled and strolled forward, waving away the hostess as she tried to seat him.
Mitch Stephenson hadn’t yet taken notice of him. Odd, given that the Stephenson family was infamous for their practice of white magic. Their attempts, for a mortal family, against Infernals was admirable . . . not because they had been successful, but rather that they had managed over the centuries not to be exterminated. According to Louis’s sources, the lad had gifts as well as training. Radiant conjurations. A flicker of witch sight, too.
One would think, then, he would know when the Prince of Darkness was in his midst.
The boy’s mental thickness was a small disappointment. But then again, it would be nice to interact with a mortal who was no match for his charms and intellect.
Louis cleared his throat.
Mitch looked up, and confusion wavered over his face. Perhaps Louis’s power and grace had overwhelmed the boy.
“Can I help you?” Mitch asked.
“You may indeed, young man. I am Louis.” He extended a hand to shake. “Louis Piper.”
Mitch’s confusion congealed into wariness, and he stared at the offered hand.
“Louis Piper,” Louis repeated. “Fiona’s father?”
“Ah!” Mitch smiled. “Fiona’s family.”
Louis instantly revised his opinion of the lad. That smile . . . Perhaps he was a little dense, but there was some quality about him that was endearing.
“Wait—her father’s side of the family?” Mitch’s grin disappeared, and he nodded dismissively at Louis’s hand.
Louis withdrew, wounded, his blood rising.
But then he understood. Mitchell Stephenson would, of course, know Infernal customs: They never shook hands unless the circumstances