Mitch gave me a questioning look. “Should we lock it?” “From creatures who can change into winged beasts or wild cats or a puff of smoke? It seems sort of useless.” “Yeah, well, if you put it that way, I guess you’re right.” We left through the back entrance to the Imperial. Mitch stood on the sidewalk and sniffed the night air. “Garlic sauce,” he said, with a strong note of regret in his voice, “steak and potatoes. Damn, I’m hungry. And I miss food, I miss the process of eating. I’d give everything I have for a plate of fettucine.” I sighed, an expression of relief rather than sadness. This was the first time Mitch had ever sounded sorry for what I’d made him into. His lack of regret had bothered me more than I cared to admit. “I’m sorry, Deirdre, I didn’t mean that to sound resentful.” “No, that’s not it, Mitch. I miss food too, even now after all these years. I can remember a cake my mother used to bake. It’s one of my earliest memories.” “That’s interesting.
