Page 7 of A Killing Frost

“Things are moving,” I protested. “May and I were talking about dresses when Danny showed up to collect me!”

“I see.” Tybalt raised an eyebrow, picking up a carafe of water and tipping it over my glass. Normally, that would have been the waiter’s job. Given that we had the dining room to ourselves, I was betting the standard of service for the evening had been set to “leave them alone, for the love of Oberon, or they might decide to eat you.” His own glass was already full. “And did you come to any conclusions that will please me?”

“Well, no,” I admitted. “Most of the dresses May thinks would be suitable wouldn’t survive five minutes on me. Lace and blood are not friends.”

Tybalt sighed. “Are you so determined to bleed on our wedding day?”

“No, but I’m also a realist, and blood is going to happen,” I said. There was a breadbasket on the other side of the flowers. I pulled it toward me. If this was a dinner date, I was going to have a pretzel roll. “I mean, at least we know no one’s going to kill me with a little casual stabbing.”

“Yes, because that makes the thought of you bleeding on your wedding dress when I’ve just confessed to the fear of losing yousomuch better.” Tybalt pushed the butter dish across the table before slumping in his chair, rolling his eyes. “If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I would suspect you of going out of your way to torment me.”

“Luckily, you do know me,” I said, and buttered my roll. “I love you. I want to marry you. There’s not much in this world that I want more than to call myself your wife. Although we’re going to have to discuss last names at some point. I hope you don’t expect me to take yours.”

“Why would I?” he asked, sounding honestly baffled. “I stole it from a man who was very special to me, but whose bones have long since gone to dust in his grave. William would have been glad to make it a loan, I think, but would never have expected me to keep it forever. Your last name remembers a father who was dear enough to you that you still cling to his mortality, even now that you have no intention of leaving Faerie behind. I’ll be glad to wear it on my sleeve for those times when a surname is required by the mortal world.”

I blinked, slowly. “Most human men aren’t that cool about the idea of taking their wife’s name,” I said.

“Then it is a good thing for you that I am not a human man,” said Tybalt, and smiled.

He was still smiling when the door opened and Jason stepped back into the room, a stack of menus in his hand and a tall man following him, pushing a dark-haired woman in a manual wheelchair. The polished hardwood floor offered no unwanted resistance for her wheels, which rolled with an almost imperceptible whispering noise. The man’s shoes, in contrast, were new enough that his heels clicked with every step.

Jason walked them to a table some distance from ours, but with a clear sightline, and handed them their menus before walking over to offer us the same. “Will you be wanting the wine list this evening?” he asked.

“No,” said Tybalt.

“I don’t really drink anymore,” I said. “My body clears the alcohol out too quickly for it to be worth the trouble.”

Jason smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “Well, then, I’ll give you a few minutes to look over your menus before I come back to take yourorders.” He went into a quick recitation of the night’s specials, all of which sounded perfectly delicious, and none of which sounded like a good enough reason for him to still be talking. I looked at him flatly. He finished describing the mushroom risotto, smiled, and walked away, leaving us with our menus.

I looked across the table to Tybalt, who was struggling to contain his laughter. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You simply looked sooffendedby the recitation of market price fish and clever ways of preparing lamb.”

“We’re at a steakhouse,” I said, picking up my menu. “I’m going to eat a steak, not a scallop salad or a creative vegan facsimile of a chicken. A steak and probably a potato of some kind, I haven’t decided.”

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to broaden your culinary horizons,” he said, opening his own menu.

“Are you sure about that? Because Mom says she can taste the death of trees when she eats maple syrup. I already have to get my steaks well-done to avoid the ghosts of all the dead cows I’ve swallowed from appearing in my head. Broadening my culinary horizons might hurt me. It might hurt me alot.”

“My mistake,” said Tybalt, sounding distinctly amused.

I scowled at him for a beat before I returned my attention to my menu. The steaks at Cat in the Rafters reallywereexcellent—enough that I didn’t mind having them cooked more thoroughly than I would once have preferred. The side dishes were even better. Thanks to this being the only local restaurant owned by one of the Cait Sidhe, this was where Tybalt and I tended to end up on our rare date nights—although that made it sound uncomfortably like a Denny’s. No onegoesto Denny’s. People just end up there.

There was a faint scrape of wood on wood as one of the other diners pushed back their chair and rose, followed by the tapping of shoes against the floor, which told me who was approaching even before I looked up. If Duchess Lorden was using her wheelchair, she didn’t currently have legs, and if she didn’t have legs, she didn’t have shoes. That meant her husband, Patrick Lorden, was making his way to our table. That didn’t make an enormous amount of sense. The Lordens have about as much trouble getting away for private time as Tybalt and I do, and I would never have taken time out of my date to interrupt theirs.

But then, I’m a Hero of the Realm, not a person who needs to call upon a Hero of the Realm on a regular basis. It’s sure fun to have a job with nebulous and intentionally ill-defined duties. I lifted my head and turned, directing a smile at the approaching Daoine Sidhe.

Tybalt wasn’t being as friendly. He was also looking at Patrick, but he was scowling, and if his ears had been more feline, they would have been pressed flat against his scalp. Someone didnotcare for interruptions.

Well. It wasn’t like his possessive streak was anything new, and it wasn’t like Patrick was coming over to try stealing Tybalt’s fiancée, although he might have a job for me. When he was close enough that I wouldn’t need to shout, I tilted my head and said, “Duke Lorden. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“My apologies for interrupting your evening,” said Patrick, mild Boston accent stronger than usual, possibly due to nerves. He turned his attention to Tybalt. “You have my assurance that I’m not planning to disrupt things more than absolutely necessary. My wife is very interested in the salmon, and she might do me material damage if I got in the way of the meal I’ve promised her.”

“I lack her authority to harm you, so I would have to throw myself upon her good graces if you were to break your word,” said Tybalt, in a tone that implied he wouldabsolutelyask Dianda for permission to harm her husband if Patrick spent too long at our table. “Pray, continue.”

Patrick nodded before turning his attention to me. “I felt it appropriate that I offer congratulations on the impending occasion of your marriage,” he said. “I remember my own wedding fondly.”

It was starting to feel like I needed to hurry up and get married just so people would stop trying totalkabout it. “Yeah, we’re pretty excited,” I said. “I think Tybalt might tie me up and drag me to Toronto if I don’t agree to a date soon.”

“Toronto?” asked Patrick politely.

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