Page 25 of Shaman

The next morning, Ian stared aimlessly out his window, the gray, pregnant clouds that swept across the city a good metaphor for his mood. Alec had slept facing away from him last night, curled in on himself. They hadn’t spoken that morning.

He hated everything.

A hesitant rap sounded at his door, and a moment later one of his various office assistants, a mousy girl whose name he could never remember, poked her head inside. “Sir,” she said, wide-eyed and nervous, “there’s a man out here who–” She blanched as a large, tan hand curled around the edge of the door above her head and pushed the panel wide, revealing Mercy Lécuyer, towering over her in buffalo plaid and his cut, long black hair streaming out from beneath a black stocking cap.

“Thanks,” he told her, and pushed his way into the office.

The girl stammered a moment, before Ian waved her off with a “thank you, that’ll be all.” Then he glared at the big Cajun. “Do any of you people ever wait to be invited in?” he groused.

Mercy shrugged and dropped down into one of the visitor chairs, completely at ease. Propped one of his giant biker boots up on his opposite knee.

Ian folded his hands across his stomach and adopted his usual you’re-beneath-me pose. “Can I help you with something?” he asked.

Mercy took his time answering, his gaze wandering around the clean, expensive lines of the office. “Actually, I think I can help you.”

“Hmm. I doubt that.”

Mercy made eye contact then, and Ian resisted the urge to shrink back into his chair. Of the two of them, Ian was in the position of figurative power. But Mercy was a man who’d snapped a woman’s neck without a second thought. Killing didn’t bother him – in fact, Ian thought he rather enjoyed it.

“I was there at the apartment the night Tango tried to kill himself,” Mercy said, and though his tone was matter-of-fact, his expression was soft, and sad.

Ian shivered.

“Aidan was screaming as he dragged him out of the bathtub. Blood everywhere.”

“And you think it’s helpful to tell me this?” Ian said.

“I talked with him after,” Mercy continued. “For weeks. We called it therapy.” He snorted. “Ghetto therapy. Shit, I’m just a blue collar mechanic, you know? But I don’t think he needed a professional then, just somebody to listen to his stories, and tell him none of it was his fault.”

Ian fidgeted. “Yes. So?”

“Ghost said something’s bothering you.” He tilted his head to the side, doglike. “He thinks maybe some of the old shit from back in the day is catching up with you. That you need help.”

“For ‘blue collar mechanics,’ you all certainly have vivid imaginations.”

Mercy continued: “He had a real hard time forgiving himself. Didn’t think he deserved to have anyone care about him.”

“If you–”

“Look, be pissed all you want, but you’re not okay, and we know it. Probably your boyfriend knows it.”

“Shut up,” Ian said through his teeth.

“Most people couldn’t survive what happened to you,” the asshole continued. “They’d be in a psych ward, or living in a cardboard box on the street, turning tricks–”

Ian surged to his feet, hands clenched at his sides, skin vibrating with a painful mixture of anxiety and anger. “Get out.”

Mercy stared up at him, unperturbed. “Ghost said he invited you to the house, and I think you should come. Let us know what’s happening. Let us help. There’s no shame in getting help, man.”

“Leave. My. Office. Now.”

“Alright.” He stood, which put him a good two inches above Ian, and a hell of a lot broader. “Think about it, though. The offer stands. Whatever you need, Ghost said.”

Ian glared him out of the office. But when the door was shut, his legs gave out and he sat down hard in his chair, catching his head in his hands.

“Jesus,” he whispered, half-curse, and half-prayer.

Seven

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