Page 43 of Penny for Your Saints

“You know what’s a disaster waiting to happen? The goddamn White Knight–still running around while the Zeitnot virus is on the rise, and Louise Penny is under such lax security that the damn Feds are sending her to get pumped full of babies while countless sigmas and omegas die—and for what?” My own wine glass passes briefly in front of the phone before Lowry returns to view.

“Don’t you worry about The White Knight—you’ve got a full alphabet of trouble fixing to come your way if you aren’t careful; ATF, CIA, DEA, DOR, FBI—SWAT; you’re just a few letters short of a full scrabble board Francis, I’d watch it if I were you.”

The shitty mic on the phone isn’t good enough to have picked up the crackling of Lowry’s fireplace—so the two of us simply sit in silence on the playback of the video.

“What the fuck is this?” Louise breathes shakily, her hand flattened against her chest, tears spilling over as her bottom lip dips tremulously. “You know Susan—she knows you have me?” her voice wobbles with pained disbelief.

“Why didn’t you just scoop her yourself?” My voice on the recording breaks the silence in both rooms—then and now.

On the touch screen, we all watch as Lowry takes down her hair, kicks the dangling slipper from her foot, and eases more fully into her repose on her overstuffed leather couch.

“She was too close with her parents to ever be turned against them. Before I met Lou, I didn’t understand what Mike had said when he called her a ‘force,’ but the moment I got in a room with her.” Lowry smiles lovingly and sighs. “She reminded me of myself when I was younger. I liked her instantly, of course.” A dry laugh rustles up from her, drawing a choked sob from Louise on the couch beside me.

As if no one would notice, Caz does his best to comfort her. First a pinky laid over her shoulder, then half a hand, until his whole lower arm is draped over her right shoulder, his hand cupping her upper arm protectively.

“I still wish that we could have managed without killing her parents,” Lowry sighs with an air of boredom, like someone complaining that the bistro hadn’t had the soup of the day she wanted for lunch. “I think it made her a little sloppy underneath—but there’s no denying that it focused her. She’s absolutely incredible—streamlined, a weapon. She really is my only worthy successor, but her goddamn altruistic, swimming pool communist parents had to turn her into their guinea pig, so dear Dennis will have to do. Hardly worthy of taking my place, but the perfect choice for puppet or patsy,” Lowry giggles, the maidenly sound at odds with her mature beauty.

Louise’s lips ripple where they press together—a seam of tears and snot beading along the wavering line—her eyes watery with a constant stream of tears, her hands balled into bloodless fists atop her knees as she continues to watch the phone screen. I’m not even sure that she’s breathing.

“So, she really is the key to the cure for the Zeitnot virus?” My voice again, incredulous.

“When was the last time you paid theRed Bishopa visit?” Lowry gives a coy non-answer, pursing her lips at the rim of her crystal wine goblet.

“I’m taking that as a yes. It would explain why the entire US alphabet is on my tail. Plus, I can’t just show up on the Red Bishop’s doorstep–he thinks I’ve been dead for years,” I press, but Susan Lowry will not be pinned down so easily.

“You didn’t hear this from me, since I’m no longer part of the FBI and am thusly out of the loop when it comes to the classified content—but if you or anyone else were to go looking for answers? That’s where I would start.” She shrugs before her image freezes on the screen.

Realizing that it’s the end of the short video, Louise’s face finally crumbles—her eyes pressing closed through a sheet of tears as she covers her face with her hands and sobs.

I should allow her a moment—a few seconds of breathing room before I say ‘told you so’—but there isn’t enough time. Surely they all know just as well as I do—that this kind of magical confession isn’t free. Like anything else, it’s come with a price.

“If that doesn’t prove to you that the FBI and the rest of the government are not on your side.” I reach out and stroke her tender flesh above the scabbed over, slightly swollen bullet graze high on her cheek with my fingertips. “I don’t know how to make it any clearer.”

Instead of smacking my hand away, like I expect—Louise just cries harder, her face turning so that her cheek rests wearily in the palm of my hand as she sobs.

The feeling of her soft, clammy cheek in the palm of my calloused hand sends a pang of sympathy for her singing through my frozen heart. The usually stoic, unflagging Agent Penny turned soft, vulnerable, and needy—it stirs my alpha instincts, my long iced over empathy and affection threatening to begin a thaw.

I pull my hand away, but Quentin and Caz crowd in to steady her—Seb, already in motion to the kitchen to brew Louise a cup of restorative hot drink.

There’s a danger here—the three of them, already moving in the currents of her needs; but I still have the control here; we aren’t pack—but the Saints are still unequivocally mine; not Louise Penny’s. They follow my orders—stand on ceremony for my benefit—not hers; and it’s time to remind them of that.

Quentin, though he’s wreathed one of his arms around the pinch of Louise’s waist, turns his crackling phosphorescent green eyes on me with calculated calm.

“How long do we have?” he asks flatly, making both Caz and Louise squirm.

“How long do we have for what?” Seb cuts in, returning with a cup of tea for Louise, hesitating a moment before handing it to her; the memory of her earlier escape attempt still fresh for both of them.

Louise’s eyes snap up to meet mine—her hands wrap around the steaming cup of tea.

“You think she bugged you—or that you were tailed back here?” She’s already moving toward the edge of her seat, eyes widening.

I know the words will hurt her, but I choose them anyway—allowing them to land.

“Lowry was right. You are a quick learner.”

That face—any softness, any hope that I might come in and save her from her hurt feelings—from herself; dashed.

Good. Don’t let her get close. Don’t let myself get attached—I know what happened last time… and I can’t survive that again.

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