Pizarro waited in the back of the restaurant, at a small high top table with four chairs. When she sat, he pointed out the extra chairs were for another couple. “Just to smooth things over this time!” he added anxiously. “Add to the conversation!”
“Fine, fine.” She took a sip of wine and shuddered; it was pink Riesling and probably poured from a box.
Pizarro removed his helmet and instantly claimed her hand with perspiring fingers. He began to boast in an ever-louder voice about his exploits in Peru.
With her free hand Faith twisted one strand of her hair, now silver and shaved into a tall mohawk. She wondered how soon she would be able to make a excuse and leave; the whole Pizarro thing had been a dreadful mistake.
Maybe, she thought, just maybe the idea of dating supervillains is a completely bad idea. Gee, Faith, how could that go wrong? Her new skin had a nicely ironic touch allowing for self-deprecation.
Pizarro launched into a long history of The Golden City. During a boast about rooms filled with treasure and murdered Incan emperors, he was interrupted by a white hand on his shoulder.
Mischief had forsaken the cape for a tall blonde who nestled on his arm. “May I introduce Ilse, She Wolf of the…”
His voice trailed off as he looked at Faith, and his nostrils flared. She tilted her head to one side behind her wineglass. Can he recognize me? she wondered. Impossible. Lex promised no one would in this new skin. No one.
Ilse cozied her nose into Mischief’s neck, and Pizarro slung an arm around Faith’s waist. She hurriedly took a sip and decided the wine wasn’t fit for loo water.
“I’m going to the bar,” she announced. “Anyone want a drink?” She needed a martini, very dirty, with extra olives.
“A bottle of their most expensive champagne, please, darling.” Ilse raised one pointed fingernail and traced Mischief’s mouth. The outline of his lips turned white.
Faith nodded and escaped. The bar was crowded with frat boys and party girls; as she waited for a bartender to fetch her a martini, a dude in a lettered jacket slipped a pill into his date’s beer.
“For God’s sake, let’s ditch this place and those two idiots.” Mischief stood behind her, his cheekbones cutting the darkness into slices. “Get lost,” he snarled, as the bartender pointed to her. “She doesn’t want anything from you.”
“And,” he added, “I do know exactly who you are, Faith. You cannot hide from me.”
Her new skin was pale stone under a waterfall. Trembling, she took his arm, and they walked outside to his Vespa.
