Page 7 of All Saints Day
“Exactly like one of those—with a little implant hidden inside.”
It had seemed so ridiculously simple—like the “magic hacker USB key” trick you saw on TV and in movies.
Now it was just a matter of my nailing down the perfect opportunity to introduce the malicious cables I’d gotten from Caz during our rendezvous after the marathon.
While it isn’t exactly a surprise that some of the members of the Saints were less than friendly upon our first meeting that evening in Boston—considering most of us met on opposing sides under fire in Liberty City—I’ve found some of the guys more difficult to get along with than others.
At first, I was taken aback by the sight of the bonding bites, so readily visible and well-healed. Without having to ask, I could tell that the dainty silver-lavender slivers of scar tissue on Sébastien’s ear lobe had been made by Louise’s pearly whites—the half moons of shining pale pink on the inside of Quentin’s bicep, the ring of opalescent scar tissue around Caz’s thumb…
Each bite only stoked my rage at first, my burning jealousy like a sea of emerald flames lurking just beneath my cool surface. I’d started blurting out questions, intent on running our meeting as if I were in control; as if it were my interrogation room.
Then Caz flung himself into my arms—tears in his eyes, his body trembling with desperation. It was like looking into a mirror that stripped away all the anger, all the furious armor that I wrapmyself in each day to stave off the fear and crushing desperation Caz was suffering in that moment; his love and need for Louise laid bare.
I knew in that moment I could trust him. Not only him, but the other men Louise had chosen to bite into her pack. I would do anything I could to help the cause: Freeing Louise—bringing her back to those of us who love her. Bringing her home.
Of the Saints, Caz, who possibly has an IQ one and a half times my own, has surprisingly become a fast friend. The youngest of the group, he’s also the least experienced when it comes to dealings with the criminal underworld. Though his record is hardly what I’d call sparkling clean, he’s spent the majority of his life on the right side of the law. Both of us seem particularly out of our depth for life in the criminal underworld—perhaps that counts for something.
Quentin, who appears to be acting as the temporary pack lead in Louise’s absence—has been decidedly cooler and aloof, but not outright unfriendly. He reminds me of my last ex’s prize-winning Devon Rex. Cold, removed, calculating, and appraising—with impressive bone structure and graceful, dancer-like posture.
The only member of the Saints that I had met before our rendezvous in Boston, Quentin Beckett, had been employed by British secret intelligence and, somewhat obviously, romantically entangled with Frank and Michael the last time I saw him.
God, how I had idolized them then—the trio of them like golden gods straight from the pages of some spy novel. I wanted to be them even more desperately than I wanted to be with them.
I remember the first time I properly caught Quentin’s scent, felt him flex his omega aura. The four of us had wrapped up one of my very first jobs—a little ‘square grouper,’ intercepted between Havana and Miami. Our little quartet ended up on a stopover in Key West for the night, the boys taking me out to thebar to celebrate one of the early successes in my short time with the DEA.
Goaded on by Mike and Frank, Quentin had simply put his hand on my knee after we had all downed another shot of Tequila. His sweet scotch, sandalwood, and rose petal scent along with that low thrumming aura resonated down to my bones, drew a surprised moan—my cock almost instantly hard.
The three of them had laughed at my expense. Back then, I had barely admitted to myself the sorts of things I’d done with Frank under the excuse of ‘alpha animal urges’. I was mortified and confused—but also desperate for their approval.
The last time I’d seen him before the firefight in Liberty City had been at Frank’s supposed funeral.
It had been the first and last time I’d seen him as anything other than the portrait of beautiful, stoic control; Quentin’s typically immaculate dress and carriage run ragged. His red, puffy eyes barely covered by a small pair of dark sunglasses, his hair a disheveled mess, the reek of cheap liquor on his breath.
He had waited for me after the burial, told me that he thought my eulogy was really nice—that he was sorry I lost both Mike and Frank in the same horrible accident.
We stood in silence for a long time—neither of us willing to show weakness to the other, to extend a helping hand or a warm embrace.
For a split second I thought about offering to take him back to my place where we could both drink and cry and talk about stupid Francis Stone, Michael Duboze, and fuck the pain away—at least for a little while.
Instead, we just gave one another a cold nod and turned our backs on each other—going our own separate ways until Liberty City just weeks ago.
I can certainly understand, if not mostly forgive Quentin’s cold remove considering our overlap in painful romantic history, but I can’t quite figure out exactly why SébastienBouaziz, the Saint’s chemist and demo man, seems to have such a distaste for me.
Looking into Bouaziz showed he’s got a hell of a record, which likely means he’s got no love for law enforcement in general—but Sébastien’s disgust and distrust of me seems to extend just beyond the possibility that he sees me as the world’s most shitty asshole cop.
Maybe if I play my cards right and he’ll start to see that he can trust and depend on me, and soften up accordingly. If not, I'd better hope that I start to learn more of the ins and outs of his gourmand tastes. They say the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach or possibly his arteries—I’m not above food and drink as bribery.
Chapter 4
Sébastien
Making our way south from our meet-up with Dennis in Boston, we have stopped over in Liberty City en route to Alexandria, and our reunion with Agent McBride in readiness for our rescue mission—not only to take a much needed rest, but to make contact with doctor Azzura Perla, one of the collaborators of the late Margot and Landon Penny.
Caz, an artist with architecting online personae and reverse-engineering social interactions to his advantage; spent several weeks concocting a false student identity to ‘hook’ Dr. Perla through more mainstream avenues of communication—before we could communicate more plainly with her in more secure channels about the Zeitnot virus and her part in its creation.
Almost as soon as we’d been able to get some of the truth out in the open, she agreed to meet with us. Or, more specifically—she agreed to meet with me; the one who had unknowingly made the first breakthroughs in the Penny’s research in years.
Cursory research had given me some idea of what to expect when looking for Dr. Perla in the Dutch masters wing of the Liberty City Fine Arts Museum, per our meet-up plan. At nearly eighty-one years old, the good doctor looked slightly more tired than the last available public photos of her accepting a lifetime achievement in biochemistry award half a decade ago, but otherwise—she looked fairly spry.
