Page 50 of Price of Angels

He didn’t turn at the sound of her approach, but she could tell he heard her the way his shoulders tightened. The morning was awash in a light fog that was rapidly being blasted apart by golden sunlight, the grass white and crunchy with frost.

Holly’s breath plumed as she sat down beside him. “Gosh, it’s cold.” She passed over a mug. “Here. In case the cold’s not sobering you up.”

He gave her a narrow-eyed, nasty glare, but took the mug. “I thought you were going to bed.”

She felt a laugh bubble up in her throat, and she let it spill out into the morning. “You’re not the boss of me.”

He groaned and sipped the coffee.

“Besides. I wanted to do something nice for you. It makes me happy. So if you won’t accept any other hospitality, I can at least bring you coffee.”

Another glare, but he said, “Thanks.”

Sensing he was embarrassed by how drunk he was, she gathered herself to leave. “Leave the mug out here when you’re done. I’ll come get it later.”

He grunted in the affirmative.

On impulse, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, lingering a moment, loving the press of her face against his bristly skin. “You’re a very special man, Michael McCall,” she said, and left him alone with his coffee and his thoughts.

When she was safely locked in her loft again, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her journal from its drawer, put the pen to the paper with a smile on her lips.

I had no idea men like this existed.

Part II.

With Wings

Nine

“Bonjour, MonsierPresident.” Mercy took off his helmet and set it on the fuel tank of his Dyna.

Ghost sent him a flat, unamused look from his position on his own bike.

Mercy gave him his widest smile. “Come on, boss, it’s a beautiful morning.”

It was acoldmorning. Their breath steamed in the dry air, like they were three dragons sitting here in the blue shadows of this pale winter dawn. But it was beautiful too: the sun a bright disc climbing up the cloudless crystal bowl of the sky, the little sparrows picking for scraps across the pavement, industrial smells of burning dampened by the frigid temperature. The weather man was still calling for a white Christmas, and Mercy could believe it.

“Tell me something,” Ghost said. “How long do I gotta put up with this hyperactive,Singin’ in the Rainnewlywed bullshit?”

Ratchet grinned over on Ghost’s other side.

“Probably for a while,” Mercy said, mock-serious. “Bein’ married’s some good stuff.”

Ghost mumbled something and glanced away, watching the street in front of them. “They’re late,” he said, changing the subject. You told them eight-thirty, right?”

“Yeah,” Ratchet said. “But you know how dealers are.”

More grumbling from Ghost. “I oughta shove all of ‘em out of town. Permanently.”

His father-in-law was extra cranky this morning, Mercy thought. This business was weighing on him more heavily than any of them would have thought.

The sound of an unhappy engine split the peaceful morning, and Mercy turned to see a decrepit Buick limping toward them. Its primary color was rust, with patches of blue clinging to the doors. It sounded like everything was wrong with it. It belched as it leapt the curb, backfired, and came to a wheezing, rattling halt. There was no telling whether the engine had been shut off, or simply died.

A spark of recognition: Mercy thought back, the walk home from Bell Bar a couple nights before, pressing Ava up against the wall in the cold, interrupted by a noisy car. It had been a Buick. This Buick, if he’d seen properly, and he knew he had.

He frowned to himself as Abraham and Dewey climbed out.

Ghost saw him. “What?”

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