Page 80 of Price of Angels

“I think it’s me,” Tango said in a cheerful voice. “I’m no relation.”

“Wrong.” Aidan made a buzzer sound in the back of his throat. “It’s me, because I’m no relation, but she has to pretend I am.”

“You’re both wrong,” Ghost said. “It’s me. I got her sixteen-year-old daughter pregnant. End of story.”

Grave nods all down the length of the sofa.

“Well thank God I didn’t do that,” Mercy said.

Ghost have him a narrow, sideways glance. “Yeah. Thank God.”

Outside, the snow fell in fat, wet flakes. It was building in the corners of the window frame, clinging to the bare branches, powdering the grass.

Maggie came to the doorway, wiping a bowl dry with a dish towel, face lined with uncharacteristic worry. The steam in the kitchen had glued thin curls of golden hair to her temples and the sides of her neck. The sleeves of her red sweater were loose where she’d pushed them up over and over.

“I’m starting to worry about Mom and Dad in this weather,” she said, voice pinched and hesitant. “Babe, do you think–”

“No,” Ghost said. “If they start to slide on ice, Denise can strap herself to the hood and breathe fire on the road as they drive.”

Mercy choked on a laugh and tried unsuccessfully to turn it into a coughing fit.

Aidan grinned, eyes crinkling into delighted slits.

Maggie’s lips pressed together, a pale hyphen in her pretty face. She turned without a word and went back to the kitchen.

“She knows they’ll show up,” Ghost said when she was gone. “God doesn’t like me enough to send them into a snow bank on Christmas. That’s just not gonna happen.”

From his spot on the floor, Carter said, “Can she really be that bad? I mean, there are people out there who actually want to kill you.”

Tango saved Ghost from answering. “Dude, you haven’t seen murderous till you’ve met a pissed off Southern mother.”

Ava came to the door, clearing her throat to get their attention. Mercy hadn’t been able to figure out, in the last few weeks, if she was self-conscious of the small roundness of her stomach, or if she was just cold all the time. Today, she was wearing an oversized navy turtleneck sweater, shapeless and masculine as it hung to mid-thigh. She’d opted for white skinny pants, instead of her usual jeans, and ballet flats – concessions to her non-biker family.

Unlike her mother, she didn’t look terrified. “Guys,” she said in a low voice, “she’s really freaking out.”

Aidan shrugged. “She gets like this every year.”

“Open up a bottle of wine,” Ghost suggested.

She sighed and nodded.

“But don’t you drink any of it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right.”

“She’s nervous, too,” Mercy said when she was gone. “But it’s coming out in an aggressive way.”

Ghost looked almost pleased. “She gets that from me.”

“To be honest, it’s cuter when you do it,” Mercy said, and couldn’t bite back the grin that bloomed in response to his president’s sharp look. “Ain’t it fun being related?”

“Shitloads,” Ghost deadpanned.

“Jesus,” Mercy said, leaning his head back against the sofa. “All you boys need to lighten up. I’m with QB” – he gestured to Carter and earned a nod in return – “how bad can this old bat be?”

The doorbell chimed.

Ghost shoved to his feet. “Guess you’re about to find out.”

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