Page 22 of Shaman

Alec did, too. He dutifully went along with the training, worked hard at it – Ian had seen the bruises on his arms and shoulders, and forced himself to swallow the rage that surged in response. But it wasn’t as vital to Alec as it was to Ian.

Alec had never been chained to a radiator and paid in menthol cigarettes. Pushed on his knees and told to suck a man’s cock for his dinner.

Ian didn’t resent him for any of that.He didn’t. But he started putting in extra training. On his own.

It was a Friday, just a week until Christmas, Knoxville decked out in trees, and lights, and garland, wreaths, big plastic red and silver ornaments. Music rolled through shop doors and children dragged their mothers by gloved hands down the sidewalks, pointing at the things they wanted through windows. It was bloody cliché.

And wonderful.

Ian dabbed at his lip with his fingertips and was surprised to pull them away bloody. “Huh,” he said, nonplussed, rubbing them together.

“Here,” Ghost said, a second before a towel hit him in the face.

Ian pressed it to his split lip, and mumbled “thanks” around it.

It was just the two of them. After the first few sessions, Ghost had declared that Mercy was “too huge to be a realistic opponent anyway,” a true statement that the Cajun had accepted with a laugh and a clap to Ian’s shoulder that rattled his teeth. Most of the time he worked with Aidan, while Ghost barked instructions. In his weeks of coming here, to this empty garage space, he hadn’t run into Kev once; he knew that was both purposeful, and for the best.

Today, only Ghost had been available, and though it was maybe twenty-five degrees in the building, both were down to their undershirts, and sweating.

Ghost picked up two bottles of Gatorade and walked them back over, offered one to Ian that he took with the hand not occupied by the towel. His muscles shifted under his skin, the controlled roll and stretch of a panther. He had gray in his hair and his scruff, and lines on his face, but he was still built like the sort of man who got into fights…and knew how to win.

“You’re doing well,” he said, and sounded sincere. “You feeling more confident?”

Ian searched for one of his usual smart remarks, and found he didn’t have one. “Yes.” He tucked the towel under his arm and took a much-needed sip of Gatorade.

Ghost nodded. “You’re fitter, for sure. A lot faster. You don’t flinch as much.” As if to test it, he mimed a swipe toward Ian’s face that Ian managed to dodge with only a minimal tilt of his head. “See?” He grinned. “A couple weeks ago you woulda hit the deck.”

Ian snorted.

“Seriously, though.”

“Yeah.” A wave of exhaustion moved over him, that sudden draining of adrenaline that brought on weakness and shakiness. He sat down hard on the case of water that served as a makeshift bench. “Jesus.”

“Makes you appreciate sitting behind a desk, huh?” Ghost asked, propping a tattooed shoulder against a support beam. His grin was teasing – in that shithead way of his.

“Fuck you,” Ian said without heat.

Ghost chuckled.

It was quiet a beat, just the sound of their panted breathing, and the sighing of cold winter wind up along the eaves of the building. Not an uncomfortable silence, but an unusual one.

He would thank him, Ian decided. Admit that it had been folly to ask for goddamn fighting lessons, but that he felt surer of himself now. Ghost and his boys had given him peace of mind, and that was worth quite a lot in this outlaw world they occupied.

But before he could say any such thing, Ghost said, “You got Christmas plans?”

Ian felt his face blank over in shock. “What?”

“Christmas. It’s next week. You and Alec doing anything?”

“Oh. Well.” His heart lurched in his chest, worse than when he was fending off a pretend assault. “We usually have dinner. Alec likes to make a fuss.”

He hadn’t so far this year, though. They didn’t even have a tree.

Things had been better since their return from New York, but there was still something careful about the way they lived and moved around one another. Sex was stilted, and infrequent. Alec smiled at him, but there was a touch of melancholy around the edges.

Ian was still distant, he knew. Somehow, in his preoccupation of dealing with the new Breckinridge account, and plotting its downfall at the same time, he’d forgotten that Christmas wasn’t just something that lived on the streets, but something that ought to have come into their apartment as well. Wines, chocolates, wrapped gifts, trees and tinsel.

“Hey,” Ghost said, and he realized he’d zoned out.

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