Zero Sum (24 page)

“That’s great, Dante,” I said, rubbing out my temples.

“Bud, it got real emotional in there. I’d give that porcelain goddess some time to breath.”

I cinched my towel tighter. The list of tonight’s disasters just seemed to keep growing.

+

Why Madam Fremont’s wardrobe contained suits that fit the both of us was beyond me. Mine was jet black. Dante’s was a dark blue. We picked out some ties, and Ayaan helped us cinch them. Our turnaround had taken under an hour, but I figured we were running late. As I slipped on a pair of shoes, Ayaan was already pointing to her watch with a frown.

“You ready, Jules?” I asked.

“Ready?” Jules had near shouted. “Oh. Oh, yes.” She went to nudge her glasses, realized they weren’t there, and made busy picking at the stitch line of her white dinner gloves.
 

As Ayaan opened the door and ushered us into the hall, I was feeling pretty nervous. I didn’t know much about fine dining. I’d spent most of my time in the frozen foods aisle. Sure, I’d helped cater a few events, but I only knew how to fill up the water glasses. I’d taken dancing lessons once, but I’d never bothered to learn all that etiquette stuff. Now it was coming back to bite me in the ass. When we reached the stairs, I could already hear the silverware clanking. I took a deep breath. This was going to be bad.

“Dieter,” Dante said, “protocol states that seniors are to be escorted by their apprentices.”
 

“Do I get to carry a sword?”

“Na, bud, you get to hold an arm.” Dante gave Jules a nudge.

“Oi, Dante, watch it!” she scolded.
 

I caught her before she took a nosedive down the stairs.
 

“You okay?” She had shivered a bit when I touched her shoulder.

“That I be,” she said to my chest. “Just no practice in heels.”

“And I’ve no practice in twenty pieces of freaking silverware.”

Jules’ body felt so warm, and her shoulder fit under my arm, and I could smell my own antiperspirant on her skin, and I was starting have that feeling you get when you sit in one of those massage chairs at the mall…

“I’ll teach ya proper manners if ya don’t let me fall down the stairs,” she offered.
 

Dante winked at me. He had his arm intertwined with Ayaan’s. (Apparently, everything was going according to his master plan.)

Getting down the stairs took a lot of time. In such a daring gown, Jules was forced to guess at where here feet were…and Jules was never very good at movement. Still, that didn’t keep her from bossing me about.

“First lesson is ta get yer hands out of yer pockets and stop hunching like that Egor character.”

I frowned. “That’s funny. Rei just—”

“Second lesson is ta pay attention to yer date. And stop starin’ at the floor. Yer not a pauper huntin’ for change.”

“But I’m helping you with your—”

“Not important. Let me fall. Dieter, ya’ve gotta keep yer shoulders back and yer chin high. Look these sorts straight in the nose. Don’t be given ‘em no quarter.”

“I’m guessing the eyes are a no-no?”

“Aye. Some’ll have a talent with the mind.” As we reached the final landing, Jules tugged at the lines of her gown. “Our announcement comes first. Get yer smile on, ya focker.”

“Our announcement?” That part kinda echoed across the dining room. The dinner party had already started, but all the action had halted when our party reached the landing. Seemed like we were a curiosity of sorts. Ayaan descended the last bank of stairs and handed a card to the tuxedo-wearing man waiting below.

“That’s the maître d’,” Jules explained. “When I curtsey, you bow.”
 

“Right.” I tried to blink away the headache. This dinner party was huge. At least thirty people were seated at the table. All that attention was like a stampede of cymbals to my Sight.

“May I announce Mr. Dieter Resnick, Mr. Jay Dante, and Ms. Jules Nelson of Elliot College. Ms. Ayaan of the Fremont Circle accompanying.”

Guess that’s what we got for using our real names…I wanted to curl up in a ball, but Jules’ nails were already dragging me into a bow. Light applause followed, and the maître d' guy led us over to the far end of the table. Madam Fremont had pride of place at the end of it, and Ayaan took up position behind her.

“Bravo, young lady,” Madam Fremont said to Jules. Leaning forward, Madam Fremont frowned at the gown. “Wasn’t thirty years enough? Wake up, Jasmine.”

Jules gave a start as the many satin folds of her gown spread wide like a proud peacock.
 

A few gasps escaped the guests at the table.

“An apotropaic,” Dante whispered.
 

Jasmine the Animated Gown seemed to take that as a compliment. She shook herself from top to bottom like a cat.

“She wants to be twirled, dear,” Madam Fremont said with a chuckle.

The gown followed Jules’ motions like the tail of tropical fish. Flecks of purple and blue shimmered at the ends.
 

The men started clapping—but the scene drew some of the women into low murmurs.

“So gaudy,” one of them whispered. (I didn’t need my Sight to sense the envy rolling off that tongue.)

“Good to see that old feather duster getting some use,” Madam Fremont said. “You’re my height, it seems.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jules said.

“A bit bigger in the bust though!” Madam Fremont said with a cackling laugh.

I had enough sense to pull out Jules’ chair. The gown parted ways as she sat, and as Jules removed her dinner gloves, the satin folds of her dress settled around her like a contented cat. I chose the chair between Jules and Madam Fremont, and Dante sat across from us. Denied Ayaan’s company, he sat to the left of a woman with a hawkish nose. She introduced herself as Dolores Fink. I recognized her as the one who had laughed at us just a few moments ago.
 

Now Fink was all smiles. Apparently, being an Elliot student had upgraded Dante from table scraps to a full course meal.
 

The bandaged DEA man sat next to Fink. He looked more interested in his scabs.

A soup course was served as soon as we took up our napkins, and a small band struck up some easy jazz. Looking down at the soup, I gestured to the spoon above the plate. Jules shook her head no and pointed to the one next to the three knives on the right. Armed properly, I went to take a sip of the soup and drew back. It smelled of vinegar and…

“I’m sorry, but isn’t this blood?”

“It is called melas zomos, the black soup of Sparta,” Madam Fremont explained. This version features pork blood, pork meat, and vinegar base to halt the clotting.”

Jules was turning as green as her evergreen dress.

None of the old folks had lifted a spoon. They were all just sitting there staring at their bowls.

“They actually ate this stuff?” I asked.

“Well, the original Spartan soup had only one ingredient.”

“Only one…you mean…”

“Yes, dear. They fell at daybreak on the third day, remember? Father said it was quite moving. They kept fighting as they burned.”

“Oh.” I needed to get a better history book, STAT.

“This version is an old embassy tradition. A reminder of what lies beyond these doors. You aren’t expected to eat it, just ponder it.”

I didn’t need to ponder anything.
 

“We shouldn’t be wasting food.”

“I’d hardly call it food, dear.”
 

Fremont’s eyes widened as I dipped my spoon in the thick red muck.
 

“Bit salty,” Dante offered. He was already halfway through his.

“Here, here,” the bandaged guy said when I finished. “Name’s Stetson. What section are you attached to?”

“Umm…” I started. Good question…

“We were dispatched by Section Chief Collins, sir,” Dante answered.
 

“Good man, Collins. Never afraid to hand out a challenging task…I’m on leave from Salt Lake, myself. Off to visit the dog and wife.”

Agent Tools leaned in from next to Jules. He wasn’t a pretty man. His hair was a jagged chop of black, and his face looked like it had been carpet bombed by acne. He sat only an inch taller than Jules, and didn’t look to have much muscle on him. “I assume you’ve been assigned to the Lake. We’ll caravan together.”
 

Before Dante could offer an answer, those disgusting soups were replaced by much more palatable looking salads. I mimed Jules and picked up the outer fork. Dante took the hint and did the same.

“You’ll want to stay south, Jasper,” Agent Stetson said between bites. “Take I-70. I-80 is too risky.”
 

Agent Tools put down his fork. “But that’ll add hours.” He was right…but that route would keep us headed towards Vegas until we got well into the Rockies.

“It’ll save a few heads.” Agent Stetson replied. He was balancing a cucumber on his fork as he spoke. “Pay Command no mind. I-80 is owned by the packs. Weres are snagging sparks along the entire stretch.”

“Awen’s ghost,” Jules said, “the whole highway is like that?”

Madam Fremont nodded. “You’d do well to stay south, Jasper. Ayaan and I were harried near the Green River.”

“You. Harried?” Agent Tools looked ready to laugh.

“Well, they did manage to scratch the paint,” Madam Fremont said with a not-so-demure shrug.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Agent Tools thrust a fork through his salad. “If the infestation is as bad as you say, we should bust every last den on our way.”

“With a bunch of wet noses in tow?” Agent Stetson asked. “You can’t be serious, Jasper.”

Francesca, Agent Tools’ partner, had not said a single word during the entire conversation, but now Jasper turned to look at her and frowned. The orange-haired mage shook her head.
 

Agent Tools let out a grunt. “Seems I’m out numbered. Very well. We’ll take the southern route. But the weather is shifting. I don’t want to get caught in another storm. We’ll depart early in the morning. Be sure to have your things ready by dawn.”

Madam Fremont sighed. “I understand your haste, Jasper. We are thin on both men and time. If this conflict cannot be drawn to a quick close, others may seek to push their advantage. We could risk losing more than just the West Coast…”

“You cannot possibly be serious,” Ms. Fink interjected. The hawk-nosed woman shook her head in disgust.

“But it is a reasonable assessment,” Stetson answered. “The Treaty promises them secure borders…and the Nostophoros are quite particular about their bargains.”

“Nonsense. The Nosferatu are like well-beaten hounds. They wouldn’t dare bare their fangs at us.”

At the other end of the table, Ambassador Balcon rapped his fork against his plate.

“Dolores, dear, this is a diplomatic mission. I’d ask that you to refrain from using that term.”

“Why we tolerate them at all is beyond me.” Ms. Fink dabbed her lip with a napkin. “These river-going savages let this marvelous leyline go to waste.” As if to underline her point, Ms. Fink made a lazy gesture that drew a plume of mana up from the ground below. She spun the mana around her like a scarf. Rosy tendrils curled this way and that. I tried my Sight on her. Ms. Fink’s aura was clear as day. She was serious. The thought of wiping the Nostophoros from the map was sending waves of pleasure up and down her spine. It took a moment to notice that Jules was patting me on the hand. I looked down to discover that all my knuckles had gone white.

“Dieter, just let it go,” Jules whispered.

“Do you think it would be that easy?” I asked.

My voice had exceeded ‘dinner table’ volume, but Ms. Fink looked quite pleased with the question.
 

“You tell me, boy.”

A coil of liquid flame grew from the center of her palm. I watched in awe as the length of flame sprouted eyes and a snout. More animal than spell, the snake-like creature wrapped around Ms. Fink three times like a shawl. Then, with the mere snap of a finger, she sent the creature crawling across the table towards me. The linens blackened at its touch, and the bouquet of flowers between us burst into flames. Hovering above my salad, the flaming snake let out a searing hiss.
 

I sat there stunned as my tasty greens wilted. I guess I should have been engaged in some cowering, but that’s not what was on my mind. The control such a spell must have taken…I couldn’t even fathom it. I wanted to take the whole spell apart and figure out how it worked. There were one or two strategies I thought might be best to create one. Both relied on keeping the heat—

“Awen’s Ghost, Dieter. Stop yer gapin’. Yer fockin’ tie be on fire.”

I screamed like a little girl, while Jules leaned forward and poked the molten snake monster in the eye. A shudder ran down the length of its body, and the creature’s flaming scales transformed into row after row of brilliant red rose petals. With a puff of breath, Jules scattered them across the room. As the vibrant petals settled on the floor, Jules plucked up a glass of water and gave my smoldering tie a dunk.
 

“Fockin’ chancer,” she grumbled.

Polite applause broke out at the display. Ms. Fink’s face drew into the Mona Lisa of rage.
 

“Bella riposte, Ms. Nelson,” Agent Stetson said with a smile.

“But that’s exactly my point,” Ms. Fink argued. “With powers like these, what have we to fear from silly beasts?”

“Aye, Ms. Fink,” Jules said with a frown. “Why be lookin’ elsewhere? There’s plenty ta fear at this table.”

Ms. Fink looked ready dive across said table, blue satin gown and all.
 

Madam Fremont saved the night with a well-placed clearing of the throat.

“Mr. Dante. Do tell us about your classes. Is Petrus Morris still teaching augury?”

Dante responded with something about PETA, a rash of lawsuits, and curriculum reforms during the 1970’s. Anyone not lost to a coma by the end of it started talking football. Me, I focused on the food.

First, the hotel served these many-legged critters fried in batter. Jules said they were calamari—as in those tiny creatures that lived in the depths of the sea. I didn’t expect to like them, but the little monsters tasted great. It was like a cross between chicken and clams. As soon as I was finished, the plate was swept away. Then it was time for a main course of beer-basted roast chicken with sides of bacon relish, broiled green beans and a heaping mound of broiled potatoes. The chef had stuck a twig in the taters and dribbled truffle oil on top. The combination reminded me of butter mixed with mushrooms, but when I told Jules I wanted to buy a gallon of the stuff, she said I’d be better off hiring a hog.