The Girl at Midnight by Melissa Grey Read Free Book Online

nodded. “Maison Bertaux.”

CHAPTER SIX
     
    Maison Bertaux sat on a narrow side street in Soho, sandwiched between an Indian restaurant and an old-fashioned British pub, a neat microcosm of modern-day London. Its display case, decorated with cheerfully fluttering Union Jacks, was bursting with pastries of every kind. Delicate marzipan sculptures. Cream puffs overflowing with custard. Sinfully rich chocolate cakes. Fruit tarts so sweet, they exploded on the tongue.
    Ivy pored over the decadent array of desserts for precisely three and a half minutes before placing her order, even though she always got the same thing: a pot of peppermint tea and a chocolate éclair. But every time, she dawdled before the display, weighing the benefits of each and every pastry Maison Bertaux could boast, which was endearing, if a touch annoying. Echo ordered a cream puff to go with her single-serving pot of tea. Pastries in hand, they marched up to the second floor, which was blissfully empty. Theysat at their favorite table in the far corner, the one with the hand-painted chessboard on its surface, nestled against the window looking down on the street below.
    Across from Echo, Ivy wrapped her gloved hands around her steaming teacup, inhaling the sweet aroma wafting from it. Echo knew Ivy’s lids would be drooping in pleasure behind the sunglasses she wore to hide her inhuman eyes. She had piled spoonful after spoonful of sugar into her tea—Echo had stopped counting after four—to the point where Echo wondered if there was, in fact, any tea left in the cup at all. How Ivy managed to swallow that down with the massive chocolate éclair she had ordered, Echo would never know. Her own Earl Grey was blessedly devoid of sugary interference. She dribbled only the smallest hint of milk into her cup, swirling around the clouds of white until her tea was a smooth sandy beige.
Perfection
.
    “Uh-oh,” Ivy said, taking a delicate sip of her sugar water. She pointed her chin at something over Echo’s shoulder. “Incoming.”
    Before Echo could turn around, two hands were placed ever so gently over her eyes. The voice that accompanied them was a perfect match: warm, solid, butterfly-inducing.
    “Guess who?” the disembodied voice asked right in her ear, breathy and delicious and far too close. A featherlight kiss was dropped on her cheek.
    “Hmm,” Echo mused, “is it … Abraham Lincoln?”
    The soft puffs of his laughter sent shivers up Echo’s body, from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. It was excruciating how easily he made her insides topple like dominoes, even after two months of dating.
He must never know
. They’d known each other since the age of seven, justlike she and Ivy. Their relationship was new, but occasionally, the weight of their friendship overwhelmed it, and he would act more like a
friend
than a
boyfriend
, ribbing her about the crazed butterflies in her stomach, even if he delighted in their presence.
    “Nope,” he said.
    Echo didn’t need to see Ivy’s face to know that she was rolling her eyes so hard she could probably see her own brain.
    “Is it … Spider-Man?”
    The hands disappeared, and Echo blinked away the bright afternoon sunlight. Ivy was, rather dramatically, sprawled on the table, facedown, gagging.
    “Nope,” the owner of the disembodied voice replied, plopping down next to her. “Just your friendly neighborhood Rowan. Though I
do
think I’d look cute in spandex.” He reclined on the bench, long legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles, elbows resting on the table behind him.
    The golden glow of his tan was made for the late-afternoon sun. Echo had always thought it was a shame he had to hide so much of it under his many layers. London might have been a liberal city, but Rowan’s tawny feathers would have caused quite a stir, even in Soho. The short, sleek plumage he had in place of hair was tucked up under a charcoal-gray beanie, and a pair of fingerless knit gloves hid