Chapter Thirteen
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IT WAS A PRIVATE DINNER, with four of us—me, Tony, the Hercules, and Xanthe—seated on benches at a table. If we hadn’t been in imminent danger, I was sure Tony would’ve been pleased by the spread of food on the table, curious to learn if it was more modern or ancient in style. Personally, I didn’t know enough to be able to tell. There were breads and cheeses, fruits and vegetable soup—and meat.
Bloody, rare meat, barely scorched over a fire that had been built in the same room as we were—I’d watched as strangers came out and cooked it, for a liberal interpretation of the word ‘cooked’. After running into the blood-spattered room next to mine, I felt myself getting sick at the sight of it. Given that the Hercules had placed the bloodiest, rarest piece in front
