Page 32 of Shaman

“Your sister…” Ian began, then shook his head. “Nevermind. I don’t want to know. What’s the plan?”

Fox turned around and dug into the duffel he’d carried up to the room, coming back out with a stack of tan uniforms. He tossed one into each of their laps. “Congrats, boys, you all just became maintenance men for their building.”

“This is insane,” Alec murmured, but when Ian glanced toward him, worried, he found his boyfriend smiling with quiet disbelief. “Does this sort of thing ever actually work?”

“Actually, yeah,” Ghost said, sounding like he didn’t believe it much himself.

Fox looked affronted. “Hey. I’m the best.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Ian deadpanned. “Now kindly assure me we aren’t all about to be arrested.”

~*~

It was alarmingly simple, as far as plans went. Maybe that was why Ian felt so nervous he thought he’d faint or vomit. Or maybe that light-headed, shaking, swaying feeling had more to do withwhathe was about to do than the likelihood that he’d actually get to do it.

Maggie’s braid job held, and he snugged his tan cap down over his head, hiding his face – and, even more distinctive, his hair – from the cameras as they trooped into the building and then the service elevator. Ghost carried a stepladder in one arm, a hard plastic Kobalt case in the other. The rest of them toted buckets which, upon initial inspection, appeared to hold rags, screws, hammers, nails, and an assortment of tools Ian had never before touched in his life.

He sweated inside his coveralls; his fingers tapped at the handle of the bucket as the service elevator chugged slowly up, and up, and up, the floor markers lighting up one-by-one above the door.

This was it. It was happening.

He’d lost all sensation in his fingertips; the bucket handle slipped and he closed his hand into a fist around it.

He could do this. He could.

Theydeservedit.

Didn’t they? Didn’t everyone who’d ever touched him back then?

Or did he deserve revenge? Maybe he wasn’t worth it.

Maybe–

The elevator came to a shuddering halt, and Ghost leaned in close, voice low. “Just remember what we talked about, okay? And if you can’t–”

“I can,” Ian said through his teeth.

“…either way. It’s alright.”

The doors slid open and they stepped out into the hall, Fox in the lead.

Ian’s knees didn’t want to straighten. Each step felt like he folded up just a little more, like a paper doll.

Fox raised his hand, the signal that meant they were almost there – and yes, there was the door. Smooth black paint and gold numbers. A white pedestal with a decorative fern atop it off to one side. A Christmas wreath circling the knocker, an understated ring of magnolia leaves.

Ian’s heart battered his ribs, a winged and frightened thing trying to get out.

Ghost squeezed his shoulder once, tight, and stepped in front of him so he stood beside Fox.

The Englishman knocked and dragged a convincing New York accent out of his repertoire. “Got a call about a busted chandelier,” he called through the door, and a moment later it cracked open, still hooked by the chain. Half of Daniel’s face peered out, and Ian looked hastily at his feet, his pulse running up his throat and out through his limbs. His entire body felt like a throbbing bruise.

“What?” Daniel said, a frown in his voice. “We don’t have a–”

There was a quiet sound, quick, which Ian knew meant Fox had pulled the pepper spray cannister from his pocket; a hiss as he fired it.

The rest of Daniel’s sentence turned into a surprised, pained shout.

Ian lifted his head, then, just in time to see Ghost snip the chain with a set of clippers. The plan, then, was to rush the door, force their way inside, and so they did, Ghost using the stepladder as a battering ram.

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