Page 19 of Shaman

“Baby keeping you up?” Ian asked pleasantly as he and Alec slid into the booth at Stella’s across from him.

“Shut up,” he deadpanned, and threw back half his coffee in one go. A waitress walked past and he signaled for a refill. “What was so important you had to call me at the asscrack of dawn?”

“Before the asscrack of dawn,” Ian pointed out.

Ghost gave him the kind of flat look that was loaded with thorns. The kind of look that no doubt sent rival club presidents ducking for cover, and which startled the waitress who brought his refill so badly that she slopped a few droplets of coffee on the table and then wiped it up with rushed, frightened apologies.

Ian smiled in return.

“What do you want?” Ghost asked.

He was always like this, Ian reflected: gruff and grouchy in person, putting on a show for his city. But call him on the phone with your worries, and the father in him bled through. He was the ruthless underground leader of Knoxville, sure, but he was also the man who’d taken in Kevin like one of his own and turned the boy’s life around.

“Alec and I find ourselves in need of self-defense training,” Ian explained.

“So take a class.”

“Ah. Yes. Let me specify: we’d prefer to learn self-defense of the vital sort. Not necessarily the class-sanctioned kind.”

Ghost swapped a look between the two of them, eyes narrowed, assessing. Then he snorted and a smile tugged unsuccessfully at one corner of his mouth. He dropped his voice low enough to prevent eavesdropping. “You wanna learn how to kill someone, you mean.”

“Precisely.”

Ghost sipped his coffee and seemed to consider a moment. “You gonna pay us for this?”

“Of course.”

He weighed it a moment longer, then shrugged. “Alright. What the hell.”

~*~

“Bruce is going to be pissed,” Alec observed.

“Yes, well. What’s he going to do about it?” There were moments, like this one, his hands on the leather-wrapped steering wheel of his spotless black Jag, that Ian wondered why he ever let Bruce drive when driving was so bloodyfun. He supposed all the best millionaires had drivers. And having someone else open the door for him always made for a dramatic exit, his coat flapping around his ankles. Having a driver said “I’m powerful.” And it enabled him to handle his never-ending phone calls and emails while they were in transit.

But today, he’d managed to give Bruce the slip, had forwarded all his calls to voicemail, and was driving his own car, Alec riding shotgun, feeling almost normal, and definitely American.

Ghost had said to wear clothes they didn’t mind getting dirty, so they were both in jeans and sweaters which, admittedly, had never seen a speck of dirt. Oh well. It was all washable. Ian had also tied his hair up in a knot and stuffed it beneath a black knit beanie.

The main gate for Dartmoor Inc. loomed ahead on the right, and Alec hitched up a little against his seatback in anticipation.

“Excited?” Ian asked.

“Nervous.”

Ian was, too.

He slowed and turned in at the gate, piloted the Jag past the nursery and trucking office, down to a brand new corrugated metal building set near the back of the property, by the river, with no signs and three open roll-top doors. As he parked, Ian spotted three Lean Dogs in hoodies and cuts loitering outside the building, little tails of gray smoke curling over their shoulders as they worked on cigarettes. He put the car in park, killed the engine…and gripped the wheel until his knuckles popped.

Damn. Hewasnervous. Jumping stomach, pounding pulse, the whole thing.

“Okay?” Alec asked, concern lacing his excited tone.

“Okay.”

They climbed out and went to greet their instructors.

Ghost, his son, and his terrifyingly large son-in-law waited for them. Mercy was the only one actively smiling – terrifyingly large and terrifyingly cheerful, too – but the two Teagues looked friendly – for them, anyway.

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