Poison Fruit

The chief clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Glad to hear it.”

      Thirty-five

The following Saturday, Stefan and I had our second date.

As promised, he took me to brunch—a fancy, upscale buffet brunch at the Brookdale Country Club.

I’d only ever driven past the place. If the weather had held, the snow-covered grounds would have been picturesque, but the cold snap had broken, and the golf course was a vast expanse of sodden, patchy turf.

As before, our appearance was greeted with excitement and consternation, gray-haired patrons whispering as Stefan and I were seated. The Brookdale Country Club definitely catered to an older demographic.

At least they put on a good spread. And yes, the sight of Stefan standing in line at the buffet and meticulously placing smoked salmon, paper-thin slices of red onion, and capers on blini with a schmeer of herbed cream cheese was . . . bizarre.

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” I said to him when we returned to our table.

He raised his eyebrows at me. “I gave you my word, Daisy.”

“I mean the food thing.” I gestured at his plate. “You don’t actually derive pleasure from it, do you?”

Stefan paused. “Not exactly, no. But I enjoy the ritual of dining and the sense of communion it evokes.” Wielding his utensils European-style, he cut his blini in quarters. “So.” He speared a piece with his upside-down fork. “I promised you candor. You wish to know my history with others of your kind. Is there more?”

I sliced into my own first course, a thick slab of prime rib that was just shy of medium rare. And yes, I realize it wasn’t even noon yet, but, hey, it was offered at the carving station. “Well, that’s the big one. But of course, there’s more.”

“Such as?” he inquired politely.

Chewing a succulent bite of prime rib, I studied Stefan. The overcast daylight filtering through the windows alleviated the impact of his unnatural pallor, making him look almost mortal. Twenty-nine. I’d been sure he was older; but then, I suppose twenty-nine in the fifteenth century was a more mature age than it was in the twenty-first. Still, I could see it now that I was looking.

“The thing is, I’m not sure where to draw the line between getting to know you and prying into painful topics,” I said. “I mean, there are the obvious questions.”

“Of course.” He gave a faint, wistful smile. “You wonder if I had a wife and children.”

Actually, I wondered if there had been multiple wives and children over the centuries. “Did you?”

“A wife, yes.” Stefan reached for the bottle of champagne in the freestanding ice bucket beside the table and topped off our glasses. “No children. She miscarried twice, and the third was stillborn.”

“I’m sorry.”

“At the time, it was cause for great sorrow. Since then . . .” Stefan shrugged. “I do not know. It may have been worse to become anathema to my own flesh and blood, to watch them age and die at a distance, while I endured.”

I took another bite. “Did you ever marry again?”

“No,” he said. “Never. There have been women, women I have loved. But it seemed unfair to wed them, when I could give them neither children nor the comfort and solace of growing old together.”

“So the Outcast can’t have children?” I murmured. That was something I’d wondered about. Not that I was considering it or anything, but I’d wondered.

Stefan shook his head. “Those of us who have been touched by death can bring no new life into the world.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

“Forgive me,” he said gravely. “I did not know you were unaware. I did not mean to mislead you, Daisy.”

“You didn’t.” I fiddled with my fork. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, obviously, I was aware that there were, um, drawbacks to any relationship we might have, what with the fact that you’re immortal and I’m not.”

“Does it frighten you?” Stefan asked.

“Of course it frightens me!” I said. “I’d be crazy if it didn’t. But honestly, right now, it doesn’t frighten me as much as what I don’t know, like why you were so reluctant to talk about your past with hell-spawns.”

“Why does it concern you so?” He sounded genuinely interested. “It was a very long time ago.”

“Because you’re avoiding the issue!” I said. “And, um, someone implied that I ought to know.”

Stefan frowned. “Someone?”

I sighed. “Daniel Dufreyne, okay? I saw him at the Market Bistro the other night. And no, I don’t trust him, but frankly, I don’t know what to think. So just tell me, all right?”

“Very well.” Bracing himself, Stefan took a deep breath. “When I was mortal, we hunted and dispatched hell-spawns.”

Yikes. Okay, not what I expected. “We?” I asked in a small voice.

“The Knights of the Cross with the Red Star,” he replied in a quiet tone. “It was part of our mission. There were more of them in those days, when faith was a simpler matter.”

I didn’t say anything.

“It was a different time, Daisy,” Stefan said. “And I was a different man. And they . . . they were unlike you. Creatures of chaos and destruction, bent on bringing about the end of the world.”

A resounding crash made me jump in my seat and glance involuntarily upward, half expecting to see the dome of heaven cracking, but it was only a busboy dropping a tray full of dishes.