There was a large graffitied dinosaur obscuring the sign. Alec squinted at it, but he followed Magnus inside the restaurant readily enough.
The moment Magnus stepped into the restaurant, he realized he’d made a terrible mistake.
The second the door closed behind them a terrible silence fell around the big, low-lit room. There was a crash as one diner, an ifrit with flaming eyebrows, dove behind a table.
Magnus looked at Alec and realized what they saw: even if he wasn’t wearing gear, his arms bore runes, and his clothes showed signs that he was wearing weapons. Nephilim. Magnus might as well have walked into a Prohibition-era speakeasy flanked by police officers holding tommy guns.
God, dating sucked.
“Magnus Bane!” hissed Luigi, the owner, as he scurried over. “You brought a Shadowhunter here! Is this a raid? Magnus, I thought we were friends! You could at least have given me a heads-up!”
“We’re here socially,” said Magnus. He held his hands up, palms out. “I swear. Just to talk and eat.”
Luigi shook his head. “For you, Magnus. But if he makes any moves toward my other customers . . .” He gestured at Alec.
“I won’t,” Alec said, and cleared his throat. “I’m . . . off-duty.”
“Shadowhunters are never off-duty,” said Luigi darkly, and dragged them to a table in the remotest part of the restaurant, the corner near the swinging doors that led to the kitchen.
A werewolf waiter with a wooden expression that indicated either boredom or constipation wandered over.
“Hello, my name is Erik and I will be your server this eve— Oh my God, you’re a Shadowhunter!”
Magnus closed his eyes for a pained moment. “We can leave,” he told Alec. “This may have been a mistake.”
But a stubborn light had come into Alec’s blue eyes. Despite his porcelain looks, Magnus could see the steel underneath. “No, that’s fine, this seems . . . fine.”
“You’re making me feel very threatened,” said Erik the waiter.
“He’s not doing anything,” Magnus snapped.
“It’s not about what he’s doing, it’s about how he’s making me feel,” sniffed Erik. He slammed down the menus as if they had personally offended him. “I get stress ulcers.”
“The myth that ulcers are caused by stress was debunked years ago,” said Magnus. “It’s actually some kind of bacteria.”
“Um, what are the specials?” Alec asked.
“I can’t remember them while my emotions are under this kind of strain,” said Erik. “A Shadowhunter killed my uncle.”
“I’ve never killed anyone’s uncle,” said Alec.
“How would you know?” demanded Erik. “When you’re about to kill someone, do you stop and ask them if they have nephews?”
“I kill demons,” Alec said. “Demons don’t have nephews.”
Magnus knew this to be only technically true. He cleared his throat loudly. “Maybe I should just order for both of us, and we can share?”
“Sure,” said Alec, throwing his menu down.
“Do you want a drink?” the waiter asked Alec pointedly, adding sotto voce, “Or do you want to stab someone? If you absolutely have to, maybe you could stab the guy in the corner wearing the red shirt. He tips terribly.”
Alec opened and shut his mouth, then opened it again. “Is this a trick question?”
“Please go,” said Magnus.
Alec was very quiet, even after Erik the annoying waiter was gone. Magnus was fairly sure he was having a horrifying time, and could not blame him. Several of the other customers had left, casting panicked glances over their shoulders as they paid hurriedly.
When the food arrived, Alec’s eyes widened when he saw Magnus had ordered their kitfo raw. Luigi had put in an effort: there were also luscious tibs, doro wat, a spicy red onion stew dish, mashed lentils and collards, and all of it laid out atop the thick spongy Ethiopian bread known as injera. The Italian part of Luigi’s heritage was represented by a heap of penne. Alec did make short work of the food, and seemed to know he was supposed to eat with his fingers without being told. He was a New Yorker, Magnus thought, even if he was a Shadowhunter too.
“This is the best Ethiopian I’ve ever had. Do you know a lot about food?” Alec asked. “I mean, obviously you do. Never mind. That was a dumb thing to say.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Magnus said, frowning.
Alec reached for a bite of penne arrabiata. He immediately began to choke on it. Tears streamed from his eyes.
“Alexander!” said Magnus.
“I’m fine!” Alec gasped, looking horrified. He snatched at his piece of bread first and only realized that it was bread when he tried to dab his eyes with it. He dropped the bread hastily and grabbed his napkin up instead, hiding both streaming eyes and scarlet face.
“You are obviously not fine!” Magnus told him, and tried a very tiny bite of the penne. It burned like fire: Alec was still wheezing into his napkin. Magnus made a peremptory gesture for the waiter that might have included a few blue sparks snapping and crackling onto other people’s tablecloths.