Page 104 of Prodigal Son

“No,” the prospect corrected. “Guests from America.”

Fox shot up out of his chair and was the first out the door, nearly mowing down the prospect as he went. He was jogging by the time he reached the final landing, swung around the post and trotted down into the pub, all closed up for the morning, chairs up on the tables, another prospect mopping. It had been a bad, chaotic scene earlier, when Fox had stabbed a man through the hand in front of paying customers.

It was quiet now, or mostly so.

A knot of men stood in the center of the floor. Fox recognized his brothers: Walsh and Shane, shrugging out of coats. A tall, lean, sharply dressed fellow with long auburn hair, and a thickset man in black standing just behind him, clearly a bodyguard. Ian Byron, Fox realized with a jolt.

Dressed in black, his hair a too-long pale shock, gaze flitting around the room with the detachment of a predator: Ghost’s little robot assassin. Reese.

And then a figure that towered over the others. A black beanie pulled down over his ears, long dark hair spilling down his back.

Mercy Lécuyer threw his arms wide and smiled even wider. “Hi, honey, we’re home!”

Thirty

Pain woke him. Albie swam up out of the dark and cracked his eye – only one would work – to bright lights, and even brighter pain, his body pulsing with it. His vision was poor, but he could tell the ceiling from the floor, from the walls, from the IV stand beside his bed…and the golden-haired woman sitting next to him.

He blinked, slowly and badly. Tried to peel his lips apart and work some moisture into his mouth.

“Oh,” the woman said, and through the fuzz of his receding drug haze, he thought she sounded surprised. Familiar, too. “You’re awake. God, hold on. Do you need some water? Or the doctor. I should page the doctor. They said to let them know when the morphine wore off…” She stood up and leaned over the bed, close enough that her face came into focus – for the most part.

It was Axelle.

The haze receded a little more.

He took a breath and forced it back out through his mouth. An attempt at speaking that was really more of a sigh.

“What?” she asked, and something slight and warm landed on his shoulder – her hand, he thought. “Hold on, and I’ll–”

“No,” he finally managed to say. Wheezy, and pathetic, and slurred. “No…more…drugs.”

She lifted her brows. “Albie, you were in an explosion. You’ve got broken bones, and a concussion, and–”

“No drugs.”

His head was wrecked, a collection of jagged-edged pieces, sharp as glass, slick and hard to grasp. He remembered the building, the man in black, a tumble of pain, and panic, and falling.

A wave of exhaustion swept up like an unexpected tide, and threatened to drag him back under. Left him trembling and nauseated. “No drugs,” he repeated, a little firmer this time. “I’ve gotta get outta here.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” she said with a snort.

“Oh. It is.”

“Sure.”

He wanted to ask her why she was here – why her, and not one of his brothers, or Raven. Wanted to ask if she still wanted to kiss him. Ask why she looked so scared. But all he could do was breathe, and fight back the dizziness, and hope the morphine wore off soon.

~*~

Eden stirred chemical-tasting cream from a plastic pouch into her bad hospital coffee and eyed the two cops guarding the door of this small waiting room. She picked up the two cups and went back to her chair beside Raven.

The other woman had her phone out, tapping at the screen. “Charlie texted,” she said, low enough the cops probably couldn’t hear. “King and Shane have just arrived. And they brought friends from America.”

“Good friends or bad friends?”

Raven slanted her a look as she tucked her phone away. “Friends with large muscles and loose morals.”

Eden took a sip of her coffee, and regretted it.

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