Page 16 of Hard Luck (Blackstone House)

For the first twenty-six years of my existence, I’d had nothing but a name—Jeremy Pope—and stories from my mom. Their relationship wasn’t serious, but it wasn’t quite casual either. Nor was it balanced—there had been more love on Mom’s side than on his. Jeremy sold printers, he said, which meant he travelled frequently, so for a weekthey’d see each other every night, and then he’d disappear for months. Phone calls weren’t his strong suit. There was nobody else for my mom, and she didn’t think Dad was seeing anyone but her either, but setting up house together was never in the cards.

Then she realised she was pregnant.

Mom broke the news on the same day as Dad announced he’d accepted a job overseas, leaving the following Tuesday. He didn’t offer to change his plans, nor did he suggest Mom go with him, and that final Monday was the last time she ever saw Jeremy. The silver dollar was his parting gift. I’d had it valued once, and I probably shouldn’t have been carrying it around with me, but it was the only piece of my dad I had left. Not even his surname had come to me. He’d told Mom that I should take hers.

But then the money started arriving, every month until I turned eighteen. He hadn’t abandoned me, but he hadn’t wanted me either.

A memory came back. After Bastian but before Priest, when the DIA thought I might try jumping off a building and they weren’t sure whether to strap me into a straitjacket or help me on my way, they’d tried sending me to a shrink. She’d listened to my story and nodded solemnly.

“I understand why you have trouble forming relationships,” she said.

No fucking kidding.

Anyhow, Priest had found me, and I’d finally found my place in life. Friendships weren’t the impossibility I’d once assumed, and teamwork wasn’t so bad either. But bureaucracy was still a pain in the ass.

And my father? Well, I now knew he hadn’t been a printer salesman, but as for his whereabouts, that was still a mystery. Nobody even knew whether he was alive or dead. But unbeknown to me at the time, his name had pulledinvisible strings. Dice had befriended me after Priest got curious about the girl with half of Jeremy Pope’s genes, and although I’d been mad when I discovered her duplicitousness, without their help, I’d probably have wound up sweeping the floor in a fast-food joint. Or dead. Or in prison.

Yet here I was.

Thelma’s silver paintwork gleamed in the sun as I approached, the sheen looking out of place beside a trio of sand-coloured military vehicles in the parking lot. Like me, she could be a temperamental little bitch, but I loved her anyway. Sometimes, I swore I could still smell the ghost of my dad’s cologne on the leather seats.

“Be good today?” I pleaded as I slid behind the wheel.

The only answer was a low grumble as her engine burbled into life. Home was a half hour away, the compound to the north of Vegas that we called Casa del Gato. The Cathouse. Once upon a time, the house had belonged to Dick Steele, better known as the Prince of Porn, but Priest had acquired it at the Choir’s inception to turn into our base of operations. One of the main attractions had been the sprawling sex dungeon, now repurposed into a bunker, an armoury, a shooting range, and an office for Echo. So few homes in Vegas came with a basement, and we liked having a space hidden away from prying eyes.

Thelma lived in the six-car garage, along with Priest’s Mustang, Dice’s Viper, a collection of motorcycles, and an armoured Range Rover. Storm’s helicopter rolled into a hangar out back, and various other vehicles were shaded by a carport to the side. We might have shared our transport, but nobody else ever drove Thelma. Partly because they knew how much she meant to me, but mostly because she broke down a lot.

A habit she didn’t quit today.

“Daughter of a bitch,” I complained as the engine cut out on West Craig. “Not again.”

I coasted to the side of the road and tried restarting her, but she spluttered and died. At least the needle on the temperature gauge wasn’t jammed into the red this time.

“I bought you new oil, and Thomas lovingly serviced you less than a month ago. What’s your problem?”

The quiet ticking sound from the engine didn’t tell me much.

“Did you do this shit to Dad? Did you? Huh?”

She just sat there looking pretty as I called Thomas. This was a regular occurrence, so there was little surprise in his voice.

“What happened this time?”

“Engine cut out.”

I didn’t hold the constant breakdowns against him—he was the only person in Vegas who could fix Thelma at all, and we’d both long since come to the conclusion that the car was mechanically cursed.

“You want me to send Brett with the tow truck?”

“I’m on West Craig Road outside Harry’s Hot Chicken.”

“At least you can get lunch while you’re waiting.”

Sure, if I wanted food poisoning. I leaned against the fender, the cast propped out in front of me—high-tech 3D-printed plastic secured with low-tech zip ties—but I hadn’t been there for two minutes when my phone buzzed.

Sin

Are you outside Pet City? Can you pick up pig ears for Saint?

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