Delusion in Death

table like normal humans.”
    He strode off, and after a flicker of hesitation, Galahad trotted after him.
    “I’m going upstairs.”
    “The hell you are. You’ll be sitting your ass down in the dining room.” Roarke took her arm to steer her there.
    She dug in her heels. “I have work. Goddamn it, he doesn’t run my life, and neither do you.”

    “We’ll sit, and we’ll eat, because he asked it. When’s the last time he asked you for anything? Anything?”
    She started to snap back with an answer, but realized she didn’t have one. “I don’t ask him for anything either.”
    “But you’ve food to put in your belly when you remember to eat it, clean clothes, a house that runs smooth so neither of us have to give it a thought.”
    “Why are you so pissed all of a sudden! Two seconds ago, you’re kissing my hand, now you’re in my face.”
    “Because he’s been waiting since he heard the first report, and I never let him know where I was, or what was happening. I never gave it a thought as I was wrapped up in the business of it, and in you.”
    And that neglect shamed him.
    “He would’ve made inquiries, of course, and would know we’re both unharmed. But I should have spoken with him myself. So it’s myself I’m so all of a sudden pissed at, and you’re collateral damage. Now the both of us will do what he asked, and we’ll sit down to eat. And we’ll tell him what he can be told because, whether you like it or not, he’s family.”
    “Okay. All right. But it better be quick.”
    She walked into the dining room where the fire was simmering, and candles put out a soft, pretty glow. Already there was a board with bread that smelled like heaven, a dish of butter, a tray of cheeses. Wineglasses sparkled, wide soup bowls gleamed on silver chargers.
    A moment later, Summerset stepped in with a tureen on a tray.
    “I should have spoken with you much earlier,” Roarke began.
    “I believe you had a great deal on your mind.”
    “Regardless, it was insensitive, and stupid.”
    Summerset merely lifted his eyebrows. “It was both.”

    “I’m very sorry.”
    “You’re forgiven.” After lifting the lid on the tureen, Summerset ladled out soup. “Eat your dinner.”
    “This is yours. I’ll get another setting. Please.”
    Whatever passed between them, Eve thought, had Summerset nodding. “As the only one in the house who’s eaten is the cat, I wouldn’t mind the soup.”
    He sat; Roarke slipped out.
    “I kept him pretty tied up,” Eve began.
    “There’s no need to explain. He tends to keep me informed, in general terms. He didn’t, and as the reports were, as I said, disturbing, I had concerns. Eat your soup before it goes cold.”
    Okay, it was odd, really odd, to sit there having dinner with Summerset. But the soup was good—warm and creamy and comforting.
    When Roarke came back, set his place, filled his bowl, it wasn’t quite as odd.
    “Do your shopping or whatever you do online for the next day or two,” Eve told Summerset. “Until I get a handle on this.” As she spoke, she reached for the bread. Roarke’s hand met hers, covered it, held briefly. And his eyes gave her simple gratitude.
    “Was it terrorism?”
    “I don’t think so—not traditional—but I can’t rule it out. A substance was released, by person or persons unknown, at the bar during the latter part of happy hour. Let’s call it a super-hallucinogenic, airborne. People inhaled it into their systems and within a couple minutes became delusional, violent. The incident lasted approximately twelve minutes. There were eighty-nine people in the bar, including staff. We have six survivors.”
    “You’re saying they killed themselves.”
    “Each other. The ME hasn’t called suicide on any victim, as yet.”

    He said nothing for a moment as Roarke poured wine for all of them. “There were two incidents, similar, during the Urban Wars.”
    Everything froze. “This happened before?” Eve demanded.
    “I can’t say it’s the same. I wasn’t there, but I know someone who was at the first attack. He told me he was going to a café where some of the underground was known to meet, and where he hoped to have some personal time with a woman he had feelings for. He was young, no more than eighteen, I think. It was in London, South Kensington. Most of the main fighting was done there, at that time. He was a half block away when he heard the screaming, the crashing, the gunfire. He ran toward the sounds.