Page 361 of The First Taste
For a second, Persephone swallows and looks at the man. He’s just an average guy in black board shorts and a tight white t-shirt. He doesn’t give us a second look and shuffles on down the street, earbuds in his ears.
“Persephone,” I say, shaking her. “Do ye know him?”
She pauses, then shakes her head. “I… I don’t think so.”
She sounds like a mousy little girl. Not at all like the stubborn, odd girl that I’ve come to begin to know over the past weeks.
I grip both of her arms, forcing her to look up at me. She’s shaking like a leaf and I move closer out of some unknown instinct. “Who are ye looking for, lass?” I ask, scanning her face as I block her from view. Protecting her, I guess ye could say.
Her eyes shine with a sudden sheen of tears. “I don’t know. I just… Whenever I am in public, especially around large crowds…” She sucks in a breath to calm herself. “I worry that Constantine might be there. Or he might have someone working for him, feeding information back to him.” She chews on her lip, her eyes sliding away behind me, hyper vigilant. “He might have somebody walk right by me that could stab me with a syringe. My life would be forfeit, just like that.”
My brows rise. I glance over my shoulder. “Is there some reason that ye think he would know where to find us right now?”
She flushes, looking down at my chest. Her denial is barely a whisper. “No.”
I ease my grip, rucking my hands up and down her arms quickly and giving her a hard look. “Do ye think that I should worry about Constantine more than usual here in Valencia?”
She swallows and still doesn’t meet my gaze. “No.”
She sounds like she’s holding back tears. I don’t know what to do with her other than to get her out of the street so that she can stop shaking and jumping every time she hears a loud noise of any kind boom out of our vicinity.
I lick my lips and look behind me a final time. No one is approaching. There is nothing to raise any sort of alarms at all.
“All right.” Stepping out, I pull her away from the wall and put my arm around her. I tuck her under my arm and start to stroll toward the villa, casual yet with purpose. “Stay close. Okay?”
Persephone nods, her eyes fixed on the hilltop that I pointed out earlier. I tense up when I feel her slide an arm around my waist. But she looks so completely freaked out that I just let it slide.
I would be lying if I said that the gentle pressure of her arm pressed against my lower back didn’t feel sinfully good and at the same time extremely alarming.
I need to say something, anything, that will get us both talking. Get us out of our heads, just for a little while.
I end up with, “What did ye study at school?”
Her steps slow for a moment. She looks up at me, her brow furrowing. “What?”
I clear my throat, acutely aware of her arm against my back, my arm laid over her shoulders like a battle cloak.
As we walk, the houses that line the street begin to shift. They grow larger at first. Then they disappear behind white sandstone fences. Instead of seeing doors and windows close enough to touch, now there is only the occasional arched trellis and wrought iron gateway. In between, smooth white sandstone gates rise above my head.
I think about my own question again, my face narrowing with concentration.
“Ye said ye went to art school. What did ye study?”
Persephone's lips quirk. Her eyes slide away, as ye often see when someone is trying to remember something. “Painting, mainly. A lot of studio work. But also, the history of painting. Art history, too.”
I purse my lips. “Those sound like the same thing.”
She slides me a glance. “They aren’t.”
We pass a large cemetery on the left, overlooking the sea. The street turns and begins to climb upward. The paved stones rise gently at first, getting steeper and more crowded further on.
“Who was yer favorite painter? Or… I guess, what period?” I narrow my eyes, feeling like I’m not entirely sure what I’m talking about. “That’s a thing, is it not?”
“It is.” Persephone looks up at me. I see a tinge of relief on her beautiful face. “I like the English and Spanish Romantics quite a bit. Friedrich, Lorraine, Roussy- Triosson, Goya. They were quite expressive.”
I nod. “I’ve heard of Goya, I think.”
She sends an amused glance my way but I’m not particularly offended by it. I’m an expert in a lot of things, but painters are just so clearly not part of my world.
