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our waiter—a young Kymeran with mango-colored hair who smelled of herbal tea and vetiver—handed us a pair of menus. It was then I discovered that Lafo’s parting comment about the blackbird pie wasn’t a joke.
    I’d always assumed that the stories about Kymeran cuisine were born of ignorance and cultural bias. As I stared at the listings for owl soup, soaked cod, pork brains in milk gravy, and blood dumplings, I realized that all stereotypes have to get their start somewhere. I wondered if I would have to resort to a stomach pump before the evening was over.
    “What will the lady be having this evening?” the waiter asked. I couldn’t help but notice a hint of malicious amusement in his voice.
    “I’ll try the blackbird pie,” I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
    “One house special—very good! And you, sir?”
    “I’ll have the same, with a Cynar aperitif.”
    “Excellent choice.”
    “What’s Cynar?” I asked after our waiter hurried off to the kitchen.
    “It’s a liqueur made from artichokes. Would you like to try some? It tastes like copper pennies. ...”
    “No—! Thank you,” I replied quickly. “Not tonight.”
    Hexe leaned back in his seat, a quizzical look on his handsome face. “Tell me—how much do you know about my people?”
    “Not a whole lot. We studied the Unholy War in school, of course. ...”
    “ We call it the Sufferance,” he corrected politely.
    “Of course. Forgive me.” I dropped my gaze to the table, embarrassed by yet another faux pas on my part.
    “You needn’t be so apologetic. I don’t view you or any other human alive today as personally responsible for what happened a thousand years ago. However, there are a few Kymerans who do hold grudges against human-kind, such as my uncle Esau. They resent encroachment on what they view as their territory. As you’ve noticed, there’s a lot more to Golgotham than what’s printed in the tour books. I am happy to volunteer my services as your native guide—assuming you’ll have me.”
    As I looked into his golden, catlike eyes, I felt myself getting light-headed. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was feeling something exciting and new, or because I hadn’t eaten all day. In any case, I hoped I didn’t look like, well, like a nump.
    “I’d be honored,” I said, returning his smile.
    Just then our waiter returned, placing the blackbird pie on the table with a flourish usually reserved for the finest cuisine. To both my delight and surprise, it smelled delicious.
    Maybe I wouldn’t need that stomach pump, after all.

Chapter 6
    “What made you decide to become an artist?”
    We were walking back to the house when he asked me that. I paused in midstep, forcing Hexe to turn and look back at me as I spoke.
    “I’ve always had a creative bent, even as a toddler. At least that’s what my nanny claimed. The first time I realized I wanted to be an artist was in middle school. My school took a day trip to the Guggenheim. I was fascinated by the exhibits—enough that I went back on my own every weekend for nearly three months. When we studied sculpting in art class, I tried to re-create this statue I’d seen there called The Dying Gaul , in modeling clay, no less. It was awful, of course, but there was something about creating something from nothing, using only my hands and will, which was very—gratifying. After that, I was hooked.
    “As you may have guessed, I grew up rich. Filthy, stinking rich. All that was expected of me was to grow up, marry someone else who grew up filthy, stinking rich, and have a couple of filthy, stinking rich kids to inherit the family fortune. I knew so many brats with Roman numerals behind their names who had no reason or desire to make anything of themselves besides what they were the minute they were born, it was disgusting. The last thing I want to do is add to that ‘tradition.’
    “The trouble with that lifestyle is this: Hanging around doing nothing while