Page 91 of Price of Angels

The city of Knoxville ground to a halt, shut down beneath a blanket of snow. Black ice glazed the streets. The South did not bustle and plow and struggle against the snow; it slept beneath it, the silence broken only by the chatter of hungry birds and the exuberant shouts of children using trash can lids as makeshift sleds.

They were snowed in, and Holly wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced this kind of happiness. There was nothing to do but watch movies, and Michael didn’t seem to care that she leaned against him, or slipped her arms around his waist. They talked in unhurried bursts of words, lapsing back into comfortable silence afterward. He wasn’t chatty, but he didn’t mind the way that she sometimes was. She could sense him listening, even if he didn’t respond.

Holly cooked, and she wore his clothes, and they ate in front of the fire while they watched all theLethal Weapons.

He opened up the gun safe and took out his impressive collection of handguns and rifles, showing her how they worked, letting her heft their weight in her hands, talking of the shooting lessons they would have.

And they were in his bed, and he was gentle and rough, and patient and raw, and Holly didn’t want this time together to come to a close. There were words building in her, pressing behind her lips as she watched him sleep beside her, and felt the strong thumping of his heart beneath her hand. She wanted to express to him how much it meant to her that he’d brought her into his home, and into his bed, and that he’d showed her what it was supposed to feel when a man was inside a woman. She wanted to describe the prettiness of his eyes to him; wanted to tease him for the way scowls or frowns were his favorite facial expressions. But mostly she wanted to thank him until she was out of breath, for the nights he’d given her.

She didn’t say any of it though, only closed her eyes and slept beside him.

And the time did come to a close, because it had to. Two days after Christmas, they woke to a morning of forty degrees, and the snow was melting in thick globs from the trees, collecting in puddles on the asphalt. It was time for Knoxville to wake again, and time for them to go back to work.

“I’ll drive you home,” Michael said, collecting her keys off the kitchen counter.

She studied the casual, assertive set of his shoulders as she flipped her hair over her jacket collar. “How will you get back?”

“I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

She didn’t protest. It was in her nature to tell him not to bother, that she could make it home alone. But she knew now that he would ignore her; better to have his company without arguing and making him extra surly.

The streets were clear, but the sidewalks were not, and people bundled in coats were slip-sliding in snowy patches and clutching at brick building facades to keep their footing.

“What will you do today?” Holly asked, enjoying the sun coming through the windows and the quiet warmth of his company.

He shrugged as he drove. “Go into Dartmoor I guess. See if there’s any work for me.”

“Okay, two questions.” She put her back against the door so she could face him fully. “What is Dartmoor?”

“You came to town looking for a Dog and you don’t know what Dartmoor is?”

“Well I’veheardof it. It’s you guy’s headquarters, right?”

He nodded. “It’s where our clubhouse is. And it’s the corporate entity that owns all the club businesses.”

“Corporate entity,” she said, smiling. “I’m impressed.”

He snorted. “Second question.”

“Well, now it’s three. But okay, number two: what sort of work do you mean? Like…murder and stuff?”

He gave her a dry, sideways glance. “You’re all about the murder.”

“Well I don’t know what being a sergeant at arms means.”

“I’m a mechanic,” he said. “I work on cars. The sergeant title is just my role in the club.”

“So you guys all have day jobs.”

“How else do you think I pay for all those Salisbury steak dinners?”

She felt her cheeks color, a bit embarrassed at her own assumptions. “I didn’t know,” she defended, “so that’s why I asked.”

“Question three?” he prodded.

“Why is Dartmoor called Dartmoor?”

He studied the road a moment, as they pulled to a slow stop at an intersection built up in the corners with snow. “There’s legends all over the UK of black dogs,” he said, not looking at her, his voice taking on a reflective quality. “Hell hounds. Crossroads demons. Dartmoor, in England, is where the stories of ghost hounds are the strongest. The Lean Dog is a specific legend,” he continued. “The vengeful ghost of a chimney sweep, hanged in Hertfordshire. The club’s founding fathers were English – based outta London. They named us for that legend. The Lean Dogs.”

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