Page 124 of Prodigal Son

He studied her as best he could, given his swimming, pounding head. She looked lovely, as ever. And sad. After a moment, she nodded. “Alright, fine. Wait here.”

Where would he go?

She left again, and he traded his soft sweats for jeans, black shirt, and body armor. It took a long time, fumbling with his cast-covered arm, and he thought she was staying away on purpose – either because she was giving up on him, or to spare him the indignity of grunting and cursing his way through the process in front of her.

But then she came back, and said, “Ugh, I was gonna help you.” She set down what she was carrying – a bottle of whiskey – and came to help him straighten and fasten his flak vest, tightening the Velcro up where he’d fumbled it, asking quietly if it felt alright, and if it was hurting his ribs. It was, but it held him all together, too, an extra layer of bracing.

Axelle unscrewed the cap on the whiskey and handed it over. “If you won’t take the prescription meds, at least have a few slugs of that. I’ll be back.” And she left again.

He sipped the whiskey, and the heat of it was an immediate relief. It dulled some of the sharp edges of the pain, and thanks to a lifetime of alcohol tolerance, didn’t make his thoughts too fuzzy.

His arsenal had been confiscated at the hospital and no doubt was taking up space in a police evidence locker right now. But there were other guns – he would never be out of guns – and he armed himself. He had to leave his ankle holster empty, because there was no way he felt like crouching down at the moment.

When Axelle returned, she wore a black leather jacket zipped up to her throat, her hair tied back in a tight bun, a satchel slung over her shoulder.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, and felt himself frown.

“No, you dumbass. I’m going with you.”

“It’s too–”

“If you say ‘dangerous,’ I’ll smack you right in your bad eye. Shut up and come on.”

~*~

The pub was officially closed for the night downstairs. After the disaster of last night, with Clive’s escape, and Fox’s showy means of stopping him, Baskerville had made the news. Albie hadn’t dealt with it personally – what with being unconscious in the hospital – but he’d heard that the police had been by. Of course, without evidence of any sort, and only panicked hearsay from civilians – and Clive neatly hidden away – there was nothing for the cops to do but give them stern looks and take off. But there were no customers downstairs, and so it was easy to find Simon Cavendish.

He sat with Eden’s mother, of all people, a bottle of wine between them on the table, their glasses half-full. Simon had ditched his tie, and his shirt was rumpled and open at the throat, his pomaded hair mussed from several finger-combings.

He glanced up with a start when Albie walked into the room, Axelle hovering at his elbow, hands up and ready to make a grab for him if he toppled.

Vivian Adkins twisted around in her chair and made a dignified noise of disgust. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes. What in the world is he doing out of bed?” She’d spoken to Axelle, and not to him.

Axelle sighed. “He’s a stubborn idiot.”

“I’m not going to sit on my ass and let the rest of my family get cut down by these people,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Vivian gave him a withering up-and-down visual sweep. She arched a brow. “Stubborn, or stupid? There’s nothing for you to do. Sit down before you fall down.”

Albie turned to Simon. “Why did you help spring me out of the hospital? You don’t even know me.”

Simon sighed, too, and sipped at his wine. “You make it sound like you’d rather have stayed handcuffed to a bed.”

“Why?” Albie pressed.

He shifted in his seat, and the way he rolled his eyes seemed chagrined. “Because Eden was right. She tried to warn me, before, about Pseudonym and its people. That they were using me, and would kill me the moment I was no longer of use.”

Albie lifted his brows – brow; only the one would move.

“They tried to. Got one of my men, nearly succeeded with me. I reached out to an old colleague from my MI5 days. Apparently, he’s one of your Emerald boys. He explained it to me, and I offered to help.”

“Why?”

Viviantsked. “Haven’t you ever heard that expression about gift horses?”

Simon frowned, gaze becoming critical, and not just patronizing. “You don’t trust me.” Not a question.

“Don’t take it personal. I don’t trust anyone.”

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