Page 1 of Shaman

One

Three Days Before Christmas

“Why did we agree to girls’ night again?” Aidan asked, sighing as the baby monitor crackled to life and emitted a thin, pitiful wail.

“Because they deserve one,” Mercy said.

“Yeah, but–”

“Because without the girls,” Mercy said, speaking over him, “there wouldn’t be any presents, or decorations, or glazed hams, or stockings, or any of that festive shit. Without the girls, there would be no Christmas, bro. They deserve a night off.”

“Yeah, but–”

“You lost, dude. Shut up already,” Ghost said, kicking his oldest son in the ankle.

“Fuck,” Aidan muttered. He elbowed Ghost in return. “That’s your baby anyway. You just gonna let him cry?”

“Yeah, yeah. Here.” He handed over his whiskey glass and got to his feet with minimal protest from his knees. Temperatures had plunged in the past week and his joints didn’t appreciate it.You’re an old man, that nagging voice in the back of his head kept whispering.

But when he looked in the mirror before he showered every night, a trim, muscled reflection stared back. Lined and weather-beaten, sure, silver at the temples, plenty of salt in his scruff. But lean and mean, more threatening than he’d ever been in his prime. Hell, who was to say his fifties weren’t his prime? New baby, happy wife, happy club – he was deciding, arthritis aside, that a person’s twenties were vastly overrated.

It took some dancing around to get out from between the couch and the coffee table. His living room was packed with bikers in various stages of lounging, the older kids laid out on the rug in front of the TV, absorbed in a monster movie that was decidedly not mom-approved. “Don’t tell your mums, yeah?” Walsh had said earlier. They’d all nodded gravely.

Girls’ night had been his idea. The old ladies had been working tirelessly to pull off another perfect Christmas for them all, and he’d found Maggie at the kitchen table two nights ago, chin in her flour-dusted hands, asleep in front of the cookie dough she’d been kneading. Ghost had proposed all the old ladies take a night for themselves to do whatever they wanted, kid- and husband-free. Wine, movies, gossip, popcorn. Gun-cleaning and knife-swapping: you know, whatever his murderous females deemed worthy.

Girls’ night had then spawned a boys’ night, all of them thinking that a joint babysitting venture would be for the best. So far it was just too many people crammed in too-small a room listening to Aidan bitch. Same old, same old.

Ghost was on his way toward the nursery to see what Ash needed when he heard a soft, hesitant knock at the front door.

He froze, skin prickling with awareness and anticipation. In his world, a knock was rarely just a knock. It was seven-thirty, dark as pitch outside, the neighborhood already blanketed with a heavy frost, and it wasn’t Girl Scout cookie season.

The knock sounded again. A little more firmly this time, but still polite.

Behind him, the TV’s sound was muted. “What is it?” several voices asked at once.

“Dunno.” Ghost put his hand on the butt of the .45 in his waistband and crossed the distance to the front door. He glanced through the window and saw the silhouette of a tall, slender figure in a long coat waiting just beyond the security light’s pool of illumination. A tall, slender figure in a long coat with either a hood up…or with long hair.

His insides unclenched and he unlocked and opened the door.

“Hey,” he said.

The silhouette took a half step forward, light spilling down his face: his high cheekbones and aquiline nose, the sharp, slender jaw. Sleek fall of auburn hair down across his shoulders. His expression was oddly unguarded, raw and lost, and the sight of it touched something paternal inside Ghost.

Ian Byron’s throat jumped as he swallowed. “Hello.”

“You alright?”

“Yes. Um. Well. Actually…” His voice wavered. “That is to say…” He took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. The corners of his mouth twitched in a poor attempt at a smile. “I was wondering,” he began again, his normally cool voice warmed by uncertainty and something almost like bravery. “If the offer of coming to boys’ night still stands.”

Ghost felt his brows jump up his forehead, and quickly smoothed his expression when Ian took a tiny step back. “Yeah. Yeah, it does, sure.” He opened the door with a wave. “You wanna come in?”

Ian stared into the house a moment, the warm lamplight, the crowd of people. Then he squared his shoulders and nodded. “Yes. If that’s alright.”

“Yeah. Get in.”

He stepped into the foyer and lingered there while Ghost shut and locked the door. Tugged his expensive leather gloves off one finger at a time, brows pinched together. He looked so out of his element that Ghost felt a little sorry for him. And was a little worried, too, because when he’d made the offer, he hadn’t thought the posh dealer would dare to show up to an all-biker guys’ night like this.

Shit, maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe…

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