Page 113 of Prodigal Son

“I look like a Russian hitman.” He grinned, and the effect of his white smile against the darkness of his eyelids was downright sinister. “I dig it.”

Raven looked pleased in the mirror as she turned to rearrange her beauty supplies. “Excellent. Go fetch your pretty redheaded friend, please.”

Mercy stood, struck again by the strange feeling of slick fabric shifting over his skin. They’d managed to cobble together a suit for him – and a fairly nice one too. He wasn’t used to wearing clothes he hadn’t bought at Tractor Supply or Walmart.

He chuckled. “I’ll pay you to call him that to his face.”

She sent him a fast, vicious smile. “No, thanks, darling. Off you go.”

He stepped out into the hall, expecting Ian to be there, waiting his turn – but no, that wouldn’t be his style. Bruce waited, hands folded in front of him, and he nodded down toward the end of the hall, to the alcove by the window, the rain-streaked glass, and Ian’s lean figure settled in a wingback chair, limned in silver sunlight.

He held his phone pressed to his ear, voice low, words discernable as Mercy approached.

“…yes, darling, very careful.” He smiled to himself, the sort of soft, indrawn smile not meant for an audience. “Yes, well, there’s plenty of heathens here to do the dirty work. No, I won’t…I know, love. Yes, I love you, too.”

His gaze flicked up and found Mercy, and his expression closed off. “I have to go. Yes, soon. Bye.” He terminated the call and slipped his phone away. “Something you needed?” he asked Mercy.

And Mercy paused. Ian’s face had already closed off, smoothed into something professional and calm, but Mercy had seen the warmth in it before; the doubt, and nerves, and the raw emotion.

He knew a moment’s intense guilt. It had been Ian who’d suggested coming along; he hadn’t been dragged. He’d straightened his cuffs and tossed his hair over his shoulder and said, “It seems as if you’re in need of some expertise.” And they had been, and they were, but after all the kid had been through, Mercy felt bad for bringing him across the pond, to this city he’d been born in, and been taken from, so near a family he wasn’t brave enough to reach out to anymore. He’d come here to help the Dogs – his new family, the one who’d taken him in without question or judgement.

“Raven’s ready for you,” Mercy said, softer than he’d intended. It was the same voice he used on his kids, and he knew it, but it had just come out without prompt. “I have no idea what she’ll wanna do to your hair, but.” He turned his own head side to side, showing off his clubbed braid.

Ian whistled and got to his feet, leaning in to inspect her handiwork. “And the eyes.” He gestured to his own. “Craftily done, that. Well.” He tugged his jacket lapels straight and tipped his head back. He had the air of someone entering a lion’s den, Mercy thought. “Once more unto the breach, I suppose.”

“Hey.” Mercy stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to do this. I can go with the rest, and–”

“And what? Fuck all of it up?” His smile was mocking – but tight. “I know perfectly well what I’m getting myself into, Felix, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

“Well. If–”

“No. Think nothing of it.” He tipped his head and narrowed his gaze, comically over the top. “How’s your pretend French accent?”

“Pretend?” Mercy scoffed, and hit him with a stream of perfect French.

Ian’s smile became truer. “How shall you like being my arm candy this evening?”

“Tres bien, monsieur.”

~*~

“Now,” Raven said, clapping her hands together.

The sniper boy – Evan – jumped halfway out of his chair at the sound, and then eased back down.

The other one – Reese – didn’t so much as blink.

Raven was determined not to look at him too closely. “A little off,” Mercy had told her, with an apologetic shrug of his massive shoulders. That, it appeared, had been an understatement of epic proportions. Even Evan kept trying to edge away from him, which put him in danger of falling off the side of his chair.

“You boys,” she continued, “are going to be my models for this little scheme. So it’s time to beautify you.”

Evan paused in his avoidance maneuvers, hanging off the chair by half an ass-cheek and one hand, other arm raised up above his head. She wanted to punch him.

“Wait,” he said, with dawning horror. “Models?”

“What did you think I’d have you do?Orchestratesomething? Please. I need two skinny boys to help with the infiltration, and you both know how to shoot.”

“But–”

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