Page 22 of Infernal Affairs

She laughs, and it’s better than any magic I have ever conjured.

“You really are a demon. I’m going to order the most complicated thing on the menu just to see if you can handle it.”

“A test?”

“An experiment,” she says. “For science.”

CHAPTER 8

DAISY

Iwatch him try not to smile. He always does this: a valiant battle against facial expressions, always losing, but with dignity.

“If it’s an experiment,” he says, “it requires a control group.”

I lean in. “Meaning you’ll have to order the opposite of whatever I get.”

Enoch nods. “For scientific rigor.”

He studies his menu, meticulous and methodical, while I order the steak. The Drake’s Inferno, flambéed at the table and finished with a brittle black salt harvested from the volcanic springs at the edge of the monster territories. The description reads like a dare.

Enoch raises an eyebrow at my choice, then orders the fisherman’s stew, and the server—her hair in a tight bun, eyes ringed with elaborate kohl—gives us an assessing look. My cheeks are so hot I’m sure there’s a handprint on them. When she leaves, I say, “You don’t mind that I⁠—”

He shakes his head. “I appreciate boldness.”

“I appreciate marbled fat and slightly dangerous menu items.”

“A useful trait around here.”

I’m about to respond when a family at the next table stares. The parents try for subtlety, but their little boy is spellbound by Enoch’s horns, openly gaping at the lean curve of bone. Enoch notices, but instead of shrinking, he turns and gives the boy a short, three-fingered wave. The kid squeaks with delighted terror and ducks under the table.

I grin at him. “You’re a celebrity, you know.”

“Occupational hazard.” He shrugs, not quite comfortable, but not unsteady either.

“I imagine you get your share of local attention.”

“Usually more after the free samples, but yes.”

I glance down at my hands. I never noticed how much they move when I’m nervous, zigzagging over the tablecloth, twisting napkins into little flourishes.

“My sister thinks I’m insane for living here.”

He cocks his head, interested. “Does she visit?”

“God, no. She’s in Thistlebrook and refuses to step foot east of the bridge. She says Blackthorn Bay is for cryptids and quacks.”

I expect him to laugh, but instead he says, “Family can be strange that way.”

“Is yours?” I blurt, then instantly want to whack myself with the breadstick they set between us.

He considers. “Not in the human sense. Except for Zadok, my siblings are scattered. I see them once a century, at best. I don’t think we ever sat at a table together.”

He lifts his water glass and turns it slowly, the candlelight burning through the liquid to flicker against his knuckles.

“I enjoy the theater of it.”

“Well, my sister Violet would have a stroke if she saw us here.”