Page 50 of Marked by the Demigod

And Katya's shoulders drop and she rolls her eyes. "And she's still having issues with that one guy, and we don't know what's up with him," she complains, and the transformation out of work mode and into gossip mode is immediate. "He seems to be completely normal, like normal normal, but she swears that sometimes - but only sometimes - he's more like her. More..." She glances around to the Bath and Body-works, but the store clerks don't pay her any attention. "I'd say she's just seeing things and trying to figure out if she has a chance of being with this guy without, you know, harming him, but she has some of the best intuition that I know of."

"Which is why she's your receptionist." Aimes finishes for her.

"Yeah," Katya says, glumly. "I chatted with the guy, but not in any official category, and he seemed to be completely normal. Even a bit of a mess."

Aimes thinks for a second of the drop dead gorgeous Miri in Katya's office, and tries to imagine her with someone who's a mess. "That's odd."

A smile tugs at Aimes’s face as Katya continues ranting, and feels almost, almost like their friendship is normal.

* * *

She comeshome from a three-day convention in Newark to find Iakov leaning against her kitchen counter, drinking a glass of water.

Aimes freezes, before very carefully setting down her keys. "Hello," she says, tentative.

The smart cat twines between Iakov's legs, the traitor.

He lifts the glass in greeting. "Nice information pile you have on me there." He nods at the coffee table, where the pile of papers still lays under a few books. "Your friend Katya do that?"

Aimes sets her overnight bag down on the couch with a deliberate movement. His eyes follow each little movement, his face twisting. "She thought it'd help."

"Help?" he asks, and she can't tell if his voice is bitter or angry, and her heart starts pounding.

"Help understand. What was going on." she says, shedding her coat and hanging it up, as if this is a normal conversation. "How long have you been here?"

"About three hours." He sets the glass down, just as deliberate. "Not everything in that pile of papers is true," he says, crossing to her. Almost tentative, he reaches a pale hand to her arm, as if to pull her into an embrace. "It's good to see you."

And it's awkward, so awkward, and Aimes doesn't even know what to say or do, and she resists the urge to pull away. "I was on a plane three hours ago, a convention."

He nods, a smirk playing across his face for a brief second. "East coast, right? New York, New Jersey, that area?" His hand moves idly on her arm, derailing her thought and crashing it in a fire. "You don't have to be afraid of me."

The words hang between them, heavy, before Aimes looks up and locks eyes with him. "It'd be a lot easier if I learned stuff about you from you, instead of government officials," she blurts out. "I've seen you like three times and you haven't...stuck around."

He grips her arm a little harder for a brief second, before gentling. "You were on a plane, are you hungry?" A flicker of a smile flashes across his eyes. "I know a place."

Her skin crawls, but she shrugs that off. "Sure, I could eat." It feels like she should say no, that she should shut the door on him and not look back, but this close to him and the world seems a bit narrower, a bit kinder, and a bit brighter.

It's irrational, she knows, she knows, but it’s awfully hard to be rational so close to him, breathing in his cologne. Out of a lack of anything else, she says, "where do you have in mind?"

He gives her a critical eye over, then shrugs, as if her appearance doesn't matter, and they disappear without even so much a noise.

And she's outside a tiny restaurant, one with warm lights inside and the smell of bread baking. He pulls her inside; it's warm, it's cozy, with kitschy decorations and decorative plates everywhere.

The sound of soft talking fills the air, and it's definitely not English.

Barely even giving them a glance, the maitre'd pulls two menus and walks to the back. Iakov follows, his hand slipping down her arm to grip her hand.

If it wasn't for the very real jetlag she'd think she was dreaming.

They're led to a small table in the back of the room, with tall seats so no one can look in.

Iakov watches her, as she opens the menu, then back up at him. "It's in German. I don't speak German."

He takes the menu from her. "Polish, actually. No better comfort food."

The faces around her match her ideas of Eastern Europe. "Poland."

He nods, his eyes never leaving her face.

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