Page 79 of Price of Angels

The kitchen was hot and teeming with spicy food smells, the windows all fogged against the chill outside. There were pine boughs draped over the windows and along the tops of the cabinets, twinkling with white lights.

Mercy heeled the door shut behind them and shook the snow out of his hair. “It’s coming down harder out there.”

“I know,” Maggie said, frowning. “If it starts to stick, I want you two to stay the night.”

“I don’t think it’s going to snow us in,” Ava said, unbuttoning her coat.

“That’s irrelevant. I don’t want any of the three of you” – gesture to Ava’s slowly expanding stomach – “sliding on ice. We’ve got the extra beds, so there’s no reason not to.”

Ava sighed, but nodded.

Maggie took the cookie platter from Ava. “Come on, my new little chef, and you can help me.”

Booted footfalls announced Ghost’s entrance into the kitchen. Ava took one look at her father and had to bite down on her tongue to keep from laughing.

He always wore dark colors, all of his clothes road-beaten and well-worn. Not one of these Lean Dogs was one for fashion. But today, he’d outdone himself, no doubt in honor of his in-laws: an old Harley shirt with the sleeves torn out, his holiest, most threadbare jeans, his cut, a black bandana, and a massive leather bracelet on his left wrist. His boots looked like he’d beaten them against the driveway, even more scuffed and dusty than normal.

Mercy laughed. “There’s the son-in-law of every mother’s dreams.”

Looking proud of himself, Ghost said, “I aim to please.”

He stepped forward and he and Mercy traded hugs, something Ava was more than glad to see. The tension between them now was fraught with affection, and not the veiled menace of those first early weeks.

“Now I know,” Mercy said, “I’m the best son-in-law there ever was–”

“You are,” Maggie said from the stove.

“ – but don’t you make a picture, Poppy.”

Maggie turned, and Ava watched her mother’s face pale as she finally got a good look at Ghost. “Go change.” Her voice was flat, no-nonsense.

Ghost opened his mouth to protest. “I–”

“Change, Kenneth. If you want a seat at my table tonight, you’ll put on the blue shirt I ironed for you.”

“Your table?” he countered. “Who do you think paid for that table?”

The glare she gave him was stone-cold. Medusa-intense. Impossible to argue against.

“Fine.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. Grumbling, he left the room.

“Poppy?” Maggie asked when he was gone. “I like that.”

“When are they supposed to get here?”

“Three.”

“What time will they actually get here?”

“Two-forty-five. Bitch is early to everything.”

“Maybe she’ll be early to her own funeral,” Aidan suggested.

Ghost made a face. “Nah. Too much to hope for.”

“What I want to know,” Mercy said, “is who she hates the most.” He glanced down the length of the sofa, where they were all parked in front of the TV. Ghost was beside him, then Aidan, then Tango.

Carter sat on the floor, leaning back against the arm. Maggie had insisted he come. “Not as a prospect, but as family.” His old man wasn’t much of a dinner date, and Maggie had a soft spot for strays, as Mercy had learned long ago.

---