Chapter 3 3

The Bugatti rolled up beside Dejah, moving at a walking pace. The passenger window slid down seamlessly. Casimir leaned across the center console, ignoring Nate, who was currently tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose with a fast-food napkin.

"Get in," Casimir said. It wasn't a question. It was a command wrapped in velvet. "I'm buying you dinner. In exchange for the... prediction."

Dejah's stomach gave a traitorous growl. It was a loud, guttural sound that cut through the city noise. Her glucose levels were crashing. She did the math quickly. She had zero calories in reserve. If she had to fight again, she would lose.

She didn't argue. She didn't play coy. She pulled the handle and slid into the backseat.

The interior smelled of rich mahogany and expensive cologne. It was a stark contrast to the garbage juice scent of the alley. Nate turned to look at her, his eyes wide and watery above the bloody napkin. He looked terrified.

Casimir glanced at Dejah in the rearview mirror. "What are you in the mood for? French? Sushi?"

"Meat," Dejah said. Her voice was flat. "Red meat. Large quantities. Now."

Casimir raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. "Carnivore. I like it."

He drove them to a steakhouse in Midtown, one of those places with dark wood paneling and waiters in tuxedos who judged your shoes. When they walked in, the maitre d' took one look at Dejah's stained, oversized hoodie and opened his mouth to protest.

Then he saw Casimir. His mouth snapped shut. "Right this way, Mr. Vanderbilt. Your usual table is ready."

They sat down. Dejah didn't wait for the menu. "Five T-bone steaks," she told the waiter. "Rare. And a pitcher of water."

The waiter blinked. He looked at Casimir for confirmation.

"You heard the lady," Casimir said, leaning back in his chair. "And bring a bucket of ice for my friend's nose."

When the food arrived, Dejah didn't talk. She ate. She cut the meat with surgical precision, stripping the bone clean. She chewed thoroughly, swallowing quickly. It wasn't gluttony; it was refueling. She could feel the proteins breaking down, the iron flooding her blood, the amino acids rushing to repair the damaged myelin sheaths of her nerves.

Her internal system, the "Asclepius" medical module, ran a diagnostic. Energy levels rising to 15%. Cognitive function stabilizing. Neural repair requires higher grade catalysts. She needed specific alkaloids found in rare herbs, or extremely expensive synthesized compounds. The steak was just fuel; she needed medicine.

She touched the pocket of her scrub pants. Empty. She had exactly zero dollars to her name. The fifty dollars she usually kept stitched into the lining of her jeans was back at the manor.

Nate finally removed the napkin. His nose was swollen and purple. "How did you know?" he asked, his voice nasally. "Seriously. Was it magic?"

Dejah wiped her mouth with the linen napkin. "I told you. Anatomy and probability," she said, pointing with her fork. "You were mouth-breathing due to sinus congestion, which reduces oxygenation to the brain. Combined with the post-prandial somnolence from your burger, your reflexes were shot. The construction site was a variable, but your inability to brace for impact was a constant."

Nate stared at her blankly. "I understood 'burger'."

Casimir chuckled. It was a low, dark sound. He pulled a black credit card from his jacket and tossed it on the table. The waiter whisked it away.

"Where to?" Casimir asked. "I assume you have a home, even if you dress like a runaway."

"Kensington Manor," Dejah said.

Casimir froze. The amusement vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating look. "Kensington? You're one of them? The... adopted one?"

Dejah nodded.

"I've heard stories," he said softly. "They say the Kensington spare is a quiet, useless thing. A ghost in her own house."

"Rumors are often inaccurate," Dejah said.

They got back in the car. The drive to the Upper East Side was smooth. Dejah closed her eyes, letting the digestion process work. But her mind was active. She was replaying the sensation she had felt earlier when they passed a small auction house. A specific magnetic resonance.

She opened her eyes. Hanging from the rearview mirror was a small, ugly wooden carving. It looked like a trinket, something a tourist would buy in Bali. But to her, it was glowing with an invisible radiation.

It was ancient Agarwood, treated with a resin that emitted low-level beta waves. For a normal person, prolonged exposure would cause headaches, maybe insomnia. For Dejah, with her hyper-sensitive neurology that was currently misfiring, it acted as a stabilizer. It quieted the static in her brain.

They were pulling up to the gates of the manor.

"Give me the ornament," Dejah said.

Casimir looked at the carving, then at her. "This old thing? Why?"

"To pay for the meal," Dejah lied. "And because it's radioactive. It's slowly poisoning you. But for me... it's medicine."

Casimir unhooked it. He held it out, dangling it from its leather cord. His eyes searched hers, looking for the lie, or perhaps the truth.

"You're a strange creature, Kensington," he murmured.

He dropped it into her palm.

Dejah's hand closed around it. A wave of calm washed over her. The headache she hadn't realized she had instantly vanished.

"Thanks," she said.

She opened the door and stepped out.