Trace (TraceWorld Book 1) by Letitia L. Moffitt Page A

was something entirely new. Whether she felt any “life force” at all, she definitely felt a queasy horror. She wondered fleetingly whether this was the twisted covert operation of a radical animal rights organization.
    Not everyone found it distasteful, however. “That was awesome!” bubbled a woman to Nola’s left.
    The man next to the bubbly woman nodded in emphatic agreement. “Next up: steak tartare!”
    “Not just yet,” Grayson whispered to Nola, pointing.
    Another chef walked in, cradling in his arms a surprised-looking duck. Nola’s stomach clenched fist-tight.
    “Worst date ever, huh?” Grayson said. “So what do you think so far?”
    “I think this may be what finally turns me vegetarian,” she blurted.
    He grinned, but she could tell that even he looked considerably less than delighted with the proceedings. That begged the question: why on earth had they come here? Perhaps even more important, why on earth did she stay ? Nothing was keeping her there. She didn’t owe Grayson anything. But every time she glanced at him, she felt like she was being challenged. It was as if he fully expected her to walk out, as if he had already pegged her for someone who didn’t take risks. That rankled her. She couldn’t have that. She turned defiantly away from him and faced the next course.
    The dinner went on, and on and on. There had been the duck, beheaded in mid-quack, followed by a wide-eyed rabbit. Each time a kill was made, the animal was moved immediately behind a screen and out of their view. The idea, Nola realized, was for the diners to experience the thrill of the death but not all the yuckiness that happens between death and special of the day—though they could still hear thrashing and slicing, still smell blood and fear.
    Between the fowl and meat courses there had been chapulines , Mexican grasshoppers usually eaten flash-fried but in this case still jumping as they were popped into each diner’s mouth. Oddly, it was the chapulines that led to her suggestion that they have a drink after the meal—not because the spiky legs twitching against her tongue had grossed her out but because the insects had left an unpleasant metallic taste in her mouth. She didn’t know whether he accepted this reason or if he believed she had been shaken up by the experience and needed alcohol to soothe her nerves; either way, he willingly suggested the martini bar across the street, where cool juniper and briny olives could wash away the blood and the bug parts.
    “So you didn’t get anything out of it?” he pressed her once they’d gotten their drinks. His voice was neutral rather than disappointed, but he was watching her face carefully.
    “Uh, that would be a big no .” What else could she say? Part of her wanted to rail at him for endorsing such hideous barbarism, but that would be hypocritical. After all, she had participated as well, and as any animal rights activist would tell her, she’d been participating all her life, albeit in a state of denial, by condoning the slaughter of animals in cruel ways for meat. What was the difference?
    To her surprise, she saw that he was smiling again, and not in a pitying or sneering way. “They call it Manger la Vie . It’s a kind of secret society of epicurean thrill-seekers who like to ‘eat on the edge,’ I think their motto goes. A friend told me about it and put my name on the members’ list, but I’ve never been to one of their dinners until now. And no, I didn’t enjoy it either. I don’t get animal trace. I don’t think people can. Did you?”
    “No,” she said, beginning to feel heated from anger and not just alcohol. “But I knew that already. So did you. So why—”
    “I know—why did we bother? The same reason as everyone else: curiosity. An essential component of the human condition.”
    “Curiosity doesn’t always need to be satisfied, especially if it involves torturing live animals.” She hated sounding so priggish, but he seemed to