The restaurant occupied a converted townhouse in Tribeca—the kind of establishment that didn't advertise, didn't accept reservations from unknown numbers, and charged enough per plate to feed a small town for a week.
Bela had chosen well.
I arrived at ten precisely, dressed in Sebastian Morrow's best suit—the one I'd acquired specifically for high-stakes meetings where appearance mattered as much as substance. The maître d' didn't ask my name, simply led me through the main dining room to a private chamber in the back.
Sound-dampened walls. Heavy curtains. A table set for two.
Bela was already seated, wine glass in hand, watching the door with the predatory attention I'd come to associate with her.
"No weapons," she said before I could speak. "House rules. The staff are very thorough about it."
I showed empty hands. "I came to negotiate, not fight."
"So you say." She gestured to the chair across from her. "Sit. The wine is excellent—I recommend it."
The chair was comfortable, the wine was indeed excellent, and the appetizers that appeared without being ordered suggested someone had arranged the evening with considerable attention to detail. Bela, presumably. She struck me as the type who left nothing to chance.
We ate in silence for the first few minutes. The food was remarkable—delicate flavors, perfect presentation, the kind of cuisine that required actual skill rather than mere expense. I'd subsisted on gas station food and Haven kitchen offerings for months. This was different.
"This is good," I said, meaning it.
"I know." Her expression carried the briefest flicker of pleasure. "One advantage of my work—I've learned where to find quality."
The pleasantries exhausted themselves. Bela set down her fork and fixed me with the calculating stare I remembered from the auction.
"You're not human."
I considered denial. Discarded it. She'd already deduced enough that pretending otherwise would only insult her intelligence.
"No."
"What are you?"
"Something that wants to do business with you."
She laughed—the sound brittle, sharp, carrying edges I hadn't heard in our previous conversation. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you need right now."
Her eyes narrowed. The assessment behind them was cold, professional, entirely devoid of the fear I might have expected from a human confronting supernatural reality.
"I've worked with supernatural clients before," she said. "Vampires, mostly. Occasionally something older. It usually ends badly—for the client, not for me."
"I'm not a vampire."
"Obviously. Vampires don't eat steak." She gestured at my plate. "You've been enjoying your meal with genuine pleasure. Whatever you are, you retain some human appetites."
Observant. Dangerously so.
"Does it matter?" I asked. "Species is less relevant than capability and intention. I have both. You have access I need."
"And what access would that be?"
"Artifact markets. Collector networks. The infrastructure that moves supernatural objects between buyers who don't ask questions." I leaned forward slightly. "I represent interests that need revenue streams outside traditional channels. You provide exactly that service."
Bela absorbed this. Her wine glass turned slowly in her fingers—a thinking habit, I noted.
"You've been watching me," she said finally. "Before the auction. Before Morrison's gallery. You conducted surveillance."
"I wanted to know who I was approaching."
"And what did you learn?"
"That you're excellent at what you do. That you're under financial pressure despite your success. That you work with both sides of the supernatural divide without apparent loyalty to either." I met her gaze. "That you're desperate for money, and desperation makes people useful."
Her mask flickered. Anger, fear, something else—all quickly suppressed behind professional composure.
"You've done your homework, Monster King."
The title landed between us. She'd been doing her own research.
"That name circulates in certain circles," I admitted. "I didn't realize it had reached human ears."
"The supernatural world talks. Humans who listen carefully learn things." She set down her wine glass. "There's a coalition building in Montana. Multiple species working together under a single leader. The vampires are nervous. The demons are curious. And now that leader is in my restaurant, proposing a business partnership."
"Does that concern you?"
"It interests me." Her smile carried none of the warmth that expression usually implied. "Concerned would suggest I have something to lose. I'm past that point."
The admission hung in the air—more revealing than she'd probably intended. Past the point of having something to lose. The words of someone who'd already accepted a terminal diagnosis.
The demon deal. The ten-year countdown she didn't know I knew about.
"Everyone has something to lose," I said carefully. "Even people who've convinced themselves otherwise."
"Perhaps." She flagged a server—discrete gesture, immediately understood. "Dessert? The chocolate soufflé is exceptional."
We ate dessert. The soufflé was indeed exceptional. Neither of us mentioned the emotional undercurrent that had surfaced during the main course.
Business, then. The comfortable territory of transaction.
"So," Bela said, setting down her spoon. "What exactly do you want, Monster King?"
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