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for your thoughts," he said finally,
spinning the last of the linguine onto his fork.
    Eve shrugged, placing her napkin on top of the table, and
pushed her salad plate away from her. "Don’t know what it is, but every
time I’m with you, I end up thinking about things I’d rather not."
    "Such as?"
    She glanced away. "It’s hard to explain."
    "Then let’s distract you," Clay said, pushing away
his own empty plate. "How about some dessert?" he asked, removing a
menu card from the side of the table. "I hear they make an amazing brownie
sundae, and I’d even be willing to share."
    There was a tinge of desperation in Eve’s gaze when she met
his eyes.
    "I can’t remember . . ." she said. "I can’t
remember what the garden . . . what Eden looked like." Eve turned her head
away to watch the shiny, happy people stroll down the crowded sidewalks of
Newbury Street. "I often wonder if this is another way that He intends to punish me, to take away the memories of the things I cherish, one by
one, so only the bad stuff is left."
    Clay was at a loss. The Creator had a gift for punishment,
there was no doubt about that. The punishment He had meted out to Eve had led
to the horror that had made her what she was now. She had been raped and
defiled and driven over the edge of madness by demons, and turned into a
monster. Wasn’t that enough?
    "We’re old, Eve," he said. "Time steals
everything eventually, memories in particular. You forget. And, in truth, I’d
like to think that God has more important things to do with his time than to
keep fucking with you."
    For a moment, Clay thought he saw the slightest hint of
anger bloom on her face, her canine teeth elongating to nasty points. But as
quickly as it was there, it was gone.
    "Do you remember?" she asked him.
    He didn’t want to lie to her. "Yes."
    "Not right now," she said, "but maybe
sometime, we can talk about it . . . maybe jog my memory. It just seems . . . I
mean, to be unable to erase the memories I wish I could forget, and not to be
able to have even a glimpse of that in my mind . . . it just hurts."
    Clay reached out and laid his hand atop hers. He was not
always comfortable with intimacy, but he could not ignore her pain. "I
remember that there were a lot of plants, if that helps you any."
    He gave her a wink,m and they both laughed softly.
    "Thanks," she said. "That’s a big help."
    "Seriously. Any time. We’ll go somewhere humanity
hasn’t completely destroyed nature, and we’ll talk about it. I’ll share
everything I can recall."
    Eve took a long breath and let it out. "That would be
wonderful." She fluttered one hand in the air. "Meanwhile, though,
back to ancient conquerors and penis-shaped vegetables."
    "Actually, we were moving on to dessert. Now, about
that brownie sundae —"
    He felt a sudden tug on the cuff of his pants and on reflex
shifted the skin on his legs to resemble that of a prehistoric sea urchin,
nasty spines rising up out of flesh as defense.
    "Shit!" he heard a familiar voice hiss from
beneath the table.
    Eve heard it as well, rolling her eyes, and they both bent
forward, carefully lifting the white linen cloth. From within a pool of shadow
under the table, the gnarled, leathery features of the hobgoblin peered up at
them. Squire was sucking on one of his sausage thick fingers, pricked by Clay’s
defensive metamorphosis.
    "What do you want, you little creep?" Eve asked.
    "Nice to see you too, bitch," he snarled, turning
to address Clay. "Sorry to cut into your lunch, but the boss wants you
back at the house right away." He scrutinized his finger, squeezing a bead
of blood from the wound. "Gave me a nasty prick there," he said,
placing the injured finger back into his mouth.
    "How apropos," Eve remarked, dropping her side of
the tablecloth, finished with Doyle’s errand boy. "A nasty prick for a
nasty prick."
     
     
    Danny Ferrick studied his reflection in the mirror over the
bureau. "I think they’re getting longer," he said, touching