The Nex by Pratt Tim

Author:Pratt, Tim [Pratt, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Tropism Press
Published: 2010-09-30T04:30:00+00:00

Chapter 11

“Suddenly the Regent’s claim seems much more plausible,” Wisp said.

I barely heard him. I just stared at Etienne’s, the restaurant looking exactly as I remembered it – the name written in elaborate script on the awning, the big front windows revealing a bright and airy dining room that became dark and cozy when night fell. Tables covered in cloth and set with crystal glasses, the length of the bar in the back of the room, the swinging doors that led to Dad’s domain, the kitchen, where he’d shown me how to crack eggs one-handed and promised to teach me fancy knifework once I got old enough that Mom wouldn’t freak. The only difference was the quality of the diners inside – instead of the more well-off citizens of Pomegranate Grove (and the occasional scattering of ordinary people out for a special occasion), the tables were populated by the usual motley that surrounded us on the street, all sipping wine and eating food that... food that my father had made? Really?

I started toward the restaurant, and Howlaa laid a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged her off, and then it was both hands, one on each shoulder, and her leaning down to whisper in my ear: “The Regent ish sure to have people watching thish place, Randy. We should get away.”

“My Dad might be in there.”

“All the more reason to tread carefully,” Wisp said. “So your reunion can be a happy one.”

“I am not going to risk my life without at least trying to see if my Dad is alive first, guys. What do you think will happen? They’ll catch me? I can freaking teleport.”

“Not if they have snipers armed with tranquilizers, and knock you out before you can,” Wisp said.

“I’m willing to risk it,” I said. “I don’t know if Bodiless or skinchangers have parents, but I do, and if my Dad is still breathing, I need to know.”

Howlaa’s grip tightened, at first, and I thought I was going to have a fight on my hands, but then she let go. “Jusht be careful,” she murmured. Howlaa and Wisp faded back, though I could still feel a little Wisp-mote hovering in my ear. I walked into the restaurant, trying to figure out how to get to the kitchen unnoticed – if Dad was here, he’d be in the back. He hated front of the house. Said he was comfortable cooking, but didn’t like to see how people reacted to his food. His version of stage fright.

Before I got two steps in, the hostess glided up to me. She was human, tall, thin like a shishkabob skewer, with long blonde hair and a weird ruby-red monocle over one eye, with a lens that twisted and spun. “Miranda Candle?” Her voice was all warmth and welcome, and I stopped.

“Um,” I said.

She tapped her monocle. “I see you’ve... joined a new subculture since the photograph I saw was taken, but facial feature ratios don’t lie. We’ve been expecting you. Come with me

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