Silent Blade Read Free Page B

shop.
    Celino shrugged. Funny how the memory played tricks. He could practically taste the pastry from the scent alone.
    Ven emerged from the cafe. Empty handed.
    Celino stared.
    â€œThe owner says the cones aren’t his to sell,” Ven said. “I told him to name the price, but he refused.”
    Celino growled. He wanted the damn cones. He strode into the shop.
    The cafe was small, barely more than a counter and six tables. The floor was faux wood, the furnishings vintage Dahlia: sturdy old furniture that would last another century. Only two of the tables were occupied. The patrons watched him like terrified rabbits.
    Behind him Romuld activated the scanner that sat over his left eye. A sheet of green light swept over the tables and people sitting at them. Romuld said nothing. The place was clean.
    An older man hurried to Celino’s side, nervously wiping his hands with a towel. “Sir?”
    â€œPassion cones,” Celino said.
    The older man twisted the towel in his hands. “You see, the business is a bit slow. It’s a weekday and off-season.”
    Celino frowned.
    The man stammered. “There is a woman. She rents one of my stoves once in a while, because I have the old iron ovens. The old province kind. She pays well. She was the one who made the passion cones. So I can’t sell them. I’ve asked.”
    The trip down the memory lane suddenly became a challenge. “Then I will ask her myself.”
    The man nodded and pointed to the back. “Through that door, sir.”
    Celino crossed the floor and ducked through the low doorway. A spacious kitchen stretched before him, filled with the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked dough.
    A woman sat at a large table, in a pool of golden light streaming from the window. She wore a sun dress the color of burgundy. Her hair was gathered into a thick dark braid that glinted with copper in the sunlight. In her hands was an electronic reader.
    She looked up at him, her dark eyes like two bottomless pools on a face tanned to golden perfection. Celino stared.
    The woman blinked against the green sweep of Romuld’s scanner and raised her eyebrows.
    â€œI’m told you made the cones,” Celino said.
    â€œTechnically, I’m still making them.” Her voice was sensuous and confident, and completely unimpressed with his surliness. She checked her reader’s clock. “Thirty seconds left.”
    â€œI’d like to purchase them.”
    â€œAre you a Dahlian?”
    â€œI don’t see how that can be of any consequence.”
    She rose. She was shorter than he, maybe five four. The thin dress hugged her chest, outlining large, full breasts and a narrow waist. The wide cut of the skirt hid her hips, but judging by the rest of her, her butt was round and plump. She grasped a heat-resistant towel, forced open the stove door and pulled a tray of cones into the light. They looked perfect, golden crispy brown.
    â€œIf you were a Dahlian, then you would know that passion cones must be baked with love and given freely. Mothers make them for their children, wives make them for their husbands, and young girls bake them for their lovers. It’s bad luck to sell them.”
    She set the tray atop a stone block and used the tongs to transfer the cones to a small cloth-lined basket. He liked the way she moved, easy, graceful, gliding.
    â€œThat’s an old superstition.”
    â€œSuperstitions add texture to life.”
    She picked up the basket and brought it to the table, and once again he stared, mesmerized by her curves and her bottomless eyes.
    â€œHow much?” he asked and wasn’t sure if he was asking how much she wanted for the cones or how much she would charge to let him have a go at her ripe body.
    â€œNot for sale.” A little sly light danced in her dark eyes.
    Cones or you, he wondered. Her eyes told him the answer: both.
    He changed his tactics. “By the same tradition, it’s bad