Page 137 of Price of Angels

“Because I don’t want another war,” Ghost said, hands on his hips. He glanced around his son, toward Tango, who stood beside his bike, smoking a cigarette and staring at his boots. “Shaman. You know him from…?”

Tango nodded his head.

“And he was one of the…?”

Another miserable nod. He scuffed his toes across the asphalt and his fingers shook on the cigarette.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Somebody wanna fill me in?” RJ asked.

“No,” Ghost and Aidan said together.

Everyone was looking at Tango, wildly curious. All but Ghost, and Aidan, and Mercy for some reason, whose jaw was set at a grim angle like he already knew.

And Michael. Other people’s history didn’t interest him in the least.

He turned away from the sad spectacle of Tango’s discomfiture and faced the wet street; it glittered like onyx against the backdrop of snow. His palms itched, tension curling and uncurling in his gut. He had the go-ahead; now he wanted to take the action. Wherever the Jessups were right now, his knife was hungry for their throats.

He felt a touch at his shoulder and turned to find Mercy standing behind him. He lifted his brows in silent question.

“I was gonna see,” Mercy said, “if you wanted some help.”

“With the brothers?”

He grinned. “Well unless you want me to diagram iambic pentameter for you, or boil a pot of crawfish, I’ve only got one kind of help to dole out.”

Michael almost smiled. Almost. “Thanks, but I can handle them.”

“You sure? I’d love to take that brick and put it through their faces.”

“I’m sure.” Michael gave a short, tight nod. His neck was stiff with tension. “I need to do this myself.”

“I get that.” Mercy’s expression was free of all judgment. Lowering his voice, he said, “They hurt Holly bad, didn’t they?”

More than words could express. “Yeah.”

Mercy clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Good luck.”

Twenty-Four

Snow was different outside the city. While a dusting of white lent an air of the magical to lampposts and parked cars and storefront awnings, it lay against open pasture like a lover, and brought every beautiful curve and hollow to life. It crusted the pine boughs in crystal sugar shards. It drifted between tree trunks and frosted every fencepost.

At Chaceaway, the animals were indoors, save the chickens, who scratched at the fluffy white carpeting in search of morsels beneath.

“It’s perfect,” Holly said, breath fogging the window in front of her as she surveyed the farm and its blanket of powder. It wasn’t a wet, icy snow – the morning news had described the road conditions as “fair” – but a dry dusting. She wrapped her fingers tight around the mug of tea in her hands. “I’d love to go walking in it.”

“Nah, you don’t wanna do that.” Wynn was building up a fire on the hearth. “It’ll just get your boots wet and make your lungs hurt.” He laughed as he glanced up at her, and saw her hopeful face. “Ain’t you ever seen snow before?”

Holly felt her cheeks warm, embarrassed to be reacting with such childlike wonder to snow. “It snowed right before Christmas. But it’s prettier here. It’s…” She turned back to the window, gaze flying across the snow-draped hillocks. “It’s pure here. No one's touched it.”

The sound of firewood thunking around behind her stopped. Wynn took a breath. “And you want to be the first one,” he guessed. There was a note in his voice that made her think he understood so much more than she could ever explain to him. Like he understood the ecstasy of something first and pure and untouched to someone like her.

“Yes,” she breathed, steam from her mouth shivering against the thin windowpane. She turned to face him again – he was on his knees at the hearth, hands braced on the old stones, watching her. “If that’s alright,” she added.

“Sure, sure.” He heaved to his feet with a wince and a popping of old joints. “We better see about getting you a warmer jacket, though. That thing you brought ain’t worth keeping the barn rats warm.”

She smiled. Being warm had nothing to do with jackets, she wanted to tell him. Michael had proved that to her.

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