Page 225 of American Hellhound
He glanced out the window again, across the rooftops and winding streets. It was one of those achingly clear days, the sky such a perfect, pearlescent robin’s egg blue it looked like it might crack at any moment. It was breezy, occasional gusts pressing around the building with low whistles.
“Forgive me,” Ian said, “but I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to do.”
Startled by the honesty of the statement, Ghost looked back at him. Alec had withdrawn into the kitchen, silently, leaving them alone. Some of Ian’s usual smug delight had been replaced with a quiet, pensive frown. Troubled and uncertain. He conducted himself with such theatrical vivacity, played the kingpin so skillfully, that it was easy to forget how young he was. Under the labels and feral smiles, he was Tango’s age. Aidan’s age.
Another of Ghost’s wayward sons, he supposed.
Ghost felt a smile form, wispy and melancholy. “I guess I just wanted to make sure I had all my bases covered before everything hits the fan. I’m not expecting anything, kid. Just be careful.”
“I…” Ian sputtered, sitting forward, face made even younger by a rare display of shock. “I…”
“I’ll see myself out,” Ghost said. “Call if you hear anything important.”
~*~
“That’s the last of them,” Jasmine said as she took the last two grocery bags from Harry and set them on the kitchen counter.
Maggie put a red checkmark next tofoodon her list. “Great. You can put them away?” She gestured to the plethora of bags scattered around the room. The clubhouse kitchen was big, but it no longer looked it with the clutter of enough food to feed over a dozen people for the next three days.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thanks, Jazz.”
From the kitchen, she popped in on the dorm crew: Mina and Nell were making beds, laying out extra blankets, dusting off and opening old cots that Maggie hadn’t seen used since the Carpathians were a problem – the first time around. When they assured her they had everything handled, she checked on Sam and Whitney who were putting together emergency contact lists for everyone: a morbid task, but a necessary one. Ava and Holly were trying to get the kids interested in a coloring project that was quickly devolving into a game of soldiers led by Mina and Rottie’s boys.
Maggie perched on the arm of Ava’s chair and surveyed the controlled chaos. Boomer and his crew were bringing in fresh kegs and restocking the bar. Littlejohn was on bathroom duty, she knew, giving everything a last scrub-down. The floors gleamed from a fresh mopping, and despite the crush of bodies, the place was spotless.
She felt like there was a hot ball of panic lodged at the base of her throat.
“Hey,” Ava said, quietly, beside her, drawing her attention. Millie was in her playpen, so she held Ash in her lap, cradling him with the expertise of long practice. It struck Maggie as strange and darling all at once, the sight of sister holding baby brother.
She reached to smooth a piece of Ava’s dark hair back behind her ear.
“You okay, Mom?”
“Just nervous, you know?”
“Yeah.” And she did.
Maggie’s heart squeezed. She’d tried, every day since Ava’s birth, to be a different kind of mother than her own. To never stifle, steer, or sway her child in a selfish direction. If Ava had married an accountant and moved to Florida, she would have cried, but she would have let her go. She had wondered, secretly, right after Ava married Mercy, if she’d been a stronger influence than she’d hoped to be; if Ava had seen Maggie’s life as the only life, and chosen it for herself thanks to undue pressure.
That wasn’t true, though, was it? It never had been. Ava Lécuyer hadn’t ever done a damn thing she didn’t want to.
“What?” Ava asked.
Maggie loved her so much. “Just glad you’re here.”
~*~
Ghost stopped in at the precinct so often these days that no one ever questioned his presence anymore. Today, he was buzzed straight through to Fielding’s office; no one even tossed him a curious/suspicious glance as he knocked on the lieutenant’s door and let himself in without waiting for a response.
The scent of bourbon hit him in the face the moment he entered.
“Jesus.” He slipped in and shut the door in a rush, blinking as his eyes tried to adjust to the dim room. Half the overhead lights were off and the blinds were drawn, horizontal threads of light stacked across the desk as the sun tried to work its way in.
“Somebody’s trying to get canned,” he observed.
Behind the desk, Fielding sat slumped on one elbow, other hand curled around a glass tumbler full of what had to be – judging by the smell – bourbon. His eyes – glassy and red-rimmed – came to Ghost with disinterest, looking through him rather than at him. He didn’t respond.
