Page 78 of Redeemed
Connor and I share a glance. His skepticism echoes my own, but I don’t see that we have a choice. We both stand and the Morrigan passes close enough for me to catch the scent of something raw and moist. She reaches the Princess and, without another word, she vanishes.
So does the Princess.
“Fuck.” The word lurches out.
“That,” Connor finishes for me.
Brodie just laughs. “Mack, you have the strangest assortment of friends and acquaintances I’ve ever come across.”
Connor shakes his head, massaging his neck with one hand. “Shut up, djinn.”
“So, what now?” I ask. The Morrigan’s stink hasn’t faded and it makes me feel unclean. “I could use a shower.”
“Yeah, man. Get cleaned up. I’ll rally the troops. We’re meeting in Stone’s conference room in an hour.”
Connor’s businesslike tone calms me. “Troops?”
He gives me a sad smile. “Every damned person I know in the city of Los Angeles, plus a few I haven’t yet met.”
I glance at Sheena and she gives me a sharp nod. That reassures me even more. “All right, then. Let’s do this.”
By the time I’m done with my shower and have slicked my hair out of my face, Connor has set things in motion. “From Stone’s, we’ll go to the target location.”
Brodie’s laughter cuts him off. “And then we’ll raise hell, my dudes.”
“I might just like this guy,” Sheena says, giving Brodie side-eye.
Connor’s eye roll is subtle, but it still makes me smile. He tilts his head toward the bed where I first set the Princess. She—or rather an exact copy of her body—is just where I left her. “Sometimes having a living god in your family tree comes in handy.”
We’re staring at each other again, and the others fade out of my awareness. “We must get David out of this alive.”
He nods so earnestly I wonder if this is the first time I’ve seen the real, honest Connor MacPherson.
“We must also destroy Jacques Betancourt before he can carry out his spell,” he murmurs.
But Jacques’ destruction won’t mean shit if David doesn’t survive. I keep that thought to myself, though, and clasp Connor’s hand. “We’ll do this,amore mio. We must succeed.”
Chapter Thirty
David
I SHAKE OUT the trousers, the legs clown-wide and the waistband riding low on my hips. About eight sizes too large, they smell like cigarettes and blood. I don’t want to think too hard about the scabby flecks of…something scattered over the fabric.
Tearing a couple strips off an old tee shirt, I use one as a belt and the other as a bandage. When I’d asked nicely for some clothes, the scum sucker they’d left in charge had gotten mouthy. I argued the point, and it took three of them to drag me off him.
They did toss us some clothes, so maybe that means I won. I don’t know. In addition to the ongoing ringing in my head from this morning’s baseball bat, my right eye’s swollen shut and my ribs are bruised. If I end up with a scar, those fuckers’ll be sorry.
We’re still locked in the tiny room of grief, and Abby and Cliffe dig through the pile. Cliffe pulls on a pair of shorts and an oversized tee, and Abby finds some jeans.
The best she can find for a top is a man’s white button-down with a dark red splatch of gore on one side of the collar. Before she puts the shirt on, she rips the collar off, her expression blank.
“This must be where they stash their next meals. Anybody got a cigarette?” Cliffe asks.Oh fuck. She had to say cigarette.
“You don’t smoke.”And I don’t smoke either. Ahhh…
She shrugs and settles onto the antique bunk. The thing squeals in protest. “Supposed to give a prisoner one last meal, but since so many of these fuckers drink blood…”
“Last meal,” I scoff, dropping onto “my” patch of floor. “What kind of talk is that? Do you think we need a last meal?” I aim the question at Abby.
