Page 135 of Price of Angels

Beyond, a wide case opening led into another, equally posh room, this one done up as an office, with desk, computer, and more shelves. “Stay out there, please,” a voice called from within. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

A light, cultured, British voice. Not like Walsh’s London commoner accent, but something more subtle and sophisticated.

Michael positioned himself to the front and side of Ghost, ready to defend him, a hand on the butt of his gun. The others ranged out, a loose line, a wall of bikers, as the owner of the voice stepped into view from around the casement and walked toward them.

Michael wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’tthis.

He was tall and very thin, his suit tailored and fitted to accentuate the narrowness of his hips, the long slender lengths of arm and leg. His hands, as he brought them up to clasp loosely in front of him, were pale and narrow, the fingers long, bone-thin. Piano-playing hands. His face was as narrow as the rest of him, harsh, blade-edged, the round curves of his brows the only softening. Masculine in a spare, pretty sort of way. His hair was a deep, shining auburn, worn long, brushed back from his forehead and behind his ears, falling in a straight sheet past his shoulders. Dark gray suit, white shirt, open at the throat, no tie.

He was young, not much older than thirty. And he was altogether freakish in how unlikely he was. Michael had been thinking of heavy, shiny-skinned Italians, or big-shouldered Russians, or iron-haired Dennis Farina types, chomping cigars and flashing jeweled rings and making Tony Soprano style threats.

Michael swore he could hear how stunned his brothers were.

“Shaman?” Ghost asked. “You’reShaman?”

“That’s what they call me,” the man said, voice light, his spare smile cool, but not unfriendly.

There was a choked sound from Michael’s side of the room. A cough, a gag, something. And then Tango said, “Ian.”

Michael turned his head to regard the overly pierced blonde member. He’d gone white as paper, all the blood drained from his face. His blue eyes were huge, startled, terrified. He breathed through his mouth, uneven inhalations that rattled at the back of his throat. His gaze was fixed on the tall Englishman, and his expression was unmistakable. He’d seen this man before. Heknewhim. He had a past of some sort with him, because no one gawked and sputtered like this when they encountered a stranger.

Aidan laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed, his knuckles paling. “Ian? This is the Ian you–” He clamped his mouth shut when Tango turned a wild, rolling gaze on him, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Shaman stepped closer, his smile shifting, becoming softer, somehow sad. “Hello, Kevin,” he said. “It’s been a very long time.”

Scowling at their host, Aidan stepped in front of Tango, between the two of them. A change had come over him; this wasn’t his usual cocky bastard swagger, but some desperate, true emotion, anger boiling up in his dark eyes. “Hey shithead, don’t talk to him.”

“Aidan,” Walsh hissed.

Shaman ignored them. “What do they call you now? Tango, is it?” His smile widened, a brightness coming into his huge light eyes. “That’s fitting, isn’t it? You always did move beautifully.”

Tango pushed his hands through the haphazard spikes of his hair. He looked about four seconds away from a total breakdown.

“Does someone wanna tell me what the hell’s going on?” Ghost asked.

Shaman turned to him, smile dropping back to a polite curving of thin lips. “I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of history with one of your men. Kevin and I worked together, you could say.” Wry twitch to one corner of the smile. “We were both Carla’s boys, years ago.”

“What does that mean?” Ghost demanded.

Shaman shrugged, an elegant gesture. “If he hasn’t told you, I suspect he doesn’t want to now.” His gaze went back to Aidan and Tango. “He’s told his friend though. Hasn’t he?” he asked Aidan.

Aidan hooked an arm around Tango’s shoulders and steered him toward the door. “We’ll be in the hall.”

Shaman watched them go, attention fixed until the door latched into place, then stepped back and gave Ghost his full attention. “Sorry. Where were we? Ah, you came to see me. So maybe you should be the one doing the talking.” He gestured to the scattered furniture with one long arm. “Make yourselves at home. Something to drink? I can have Mona bring something up.”

“Nah,” Ghost said. “We won’t be here long.”

Shaman settled onto the arm of the nearest chair, legs stretched before him. He twirled one hand through the air, an invitation. “Well by all means, let’s begin.”

“Kev.” Aidan laid a hand on top of his best friend’s head, amid the crunchy spikes of blonde hair, at a loss as to how to help. Tango sat on the floor, his back to the wall, not at all caring that the receptionist douchebag was giving them a distasteful glance. He breathed into his cupped hands, irregular, sharp draws of air. He was shaking.

“Kev,” Aidan repeated. “That’s him? You’re sure?”

With an effort, Tango leaned back, letting his head fall against the wall. His eyes were slick when they lifted. “That’s him. Christ, yeah, that’s him. I have no idea…how did he even…he’s rich.Christ.”

Aidan righted himself, sighing. “How’s a dancing boy end up the richest, most powerful asshole in the Southeast underground?”

“I don’t know.” Tango closed his eyes, his face pained as he swallowed. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…I shouldn’t have…I just…”

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