Page 4 of Not With the Eyes

Oberon laughed despite himself. "Thanks, kitty cat."

"Ugh, all of you and the cat jokes." Greg playfully shoved him as he passed by, and Oberon continued snickering, the sound fading only as he reached the main hallway and headed back to the kitchen for more caffeine. Now that he had homework, it was going to be a long day and night.

Naturally, his new partner in crime was already there again. "Do you ever leave the kitchen?"

"Not really," Scones said. "Always been my favorite room in the house. My mother never went to any room she felt was beneath her, and the only thing lower in her mind than the kitchen was the laundry room. All the years I hid from her as a kid, she never checked for me in the dryer." Scones sipped at what was presumably tea, since he was fairly certain not drinking tea at all hours was illegal in the Kingdom of Britain, at least since a lucrative trade arrangement between East China, India, and Britain that had formed in the mid-1700s.

Oberon set about fixing a fresh pot of coffee. "Sounds like you had a charming childhood."

"I've told you before it was an utter delight." Scones finished his tea and poured a fresh cup, then sat at the table instead of leaning against the counter as he had been. He gestured to the empty seats. "If we're going to be working together, it will go far more smoothly if you don't completely hate me. Is there any way I can get you down to like, fifty percent? I promise you, no one hates my mother more than me. Did you know I had a little sister?"

That statement succeeded in getting Oberon's full attention. He turned, folding his arms across his chest. "Whatare you talking about? I've seen more files on that bitch than most people, and nowhere at all does it mention a second child."

"She was born prematurely, weak and sickly, and the doctors said she'd probably always be that way. The next day, she was mysteriously dead in her little protective box, right there in the hospital. Day afterthat, I was, and had always been, an only child. I was four, so don't remember it, but I found the information later. Probably for the best. There's no telling how much crueler my mother would have been to a frail daughter."

Damn it. Oberon had one weakness and one weakness only: children. "She's even more disgusting than I thought, and my opinion of her was already in the toilet."

Scones laughed. "Psh. Go deeper. All the way into the sewer lines."

Oberon refused to be amused by anything Scones said. Whatever he said, whatever stories he told, he was still the son of Margaux Lachapelle, and that meant he was dangerous, untrustworthy. Who knew how good he'd become at spinning lies?

He ignored the nagging voice that tried to point out that if Scones was a traitor, he'd have turned them all in long ago, not waited with them for weeks here doing essentially nothing, waiting for their next chance to strike. "She must have been disappointed you were only a 3-level."

"She was, but I proved myself a good little killing machine. 3-level might not have much on all you fancy higher levels, but being a breezer isn't nothing." Scones smiled sourly, looking far older than age, which was… thirty-something. Thirty-five? Whatever. "Military. Special forces. Elite sniper. Black Ops. I just got better and better at it. 511 confirmed kills."

Jesus. He wasn't a killer. He was a mass-murderer. "Algernon. Scones. Pray tell, what was your call sign in the military?"

The horrid smile collapsed entirely, a blank look falling over Scones's face like a drop cloth. He rose as he scooped up his teacup and said, "Painkiller." Depositing the cup in the sink, he strode out of the kitchen.

Well, that hit a nerve. Oberon didn't feel nearly as satisfied as he would have liked.

He sighed and fixed his coffee, then reclaimed his seat. The bastard was right about one thing, much as he loathed admitting it: they would have to get along if this mission was going to work, and so far, Oberon was the only one being hostile. So he'd have to suck it up and play nice. Fine. Whatever it took to get himself back. Once he had that, he could go wherever he wanted, stop playing at this stupid Anti-Hero nonsense.

Laughing bitterly, Oberon took his turn at rising dramatically and striding tragically from the kitchen. Stop playing at Anti-Hero. Ha. What else was he going to do with his life? His long, long, not ending anytime soon life, a delightful side effect of his shifting.

Settle down? Start a new family? Ha. He wasn't stupid enough to try that again. Losing one family was enough. Anyway, that required either a one hundred percent scientific approach, adoption, or the old-fashioned method, and none of them appealed or was really viable. The first two required far too much of a paper trail, even with Byron being the most devious bastard on the planet, and the last one…

Oberon couldn't even stand himself most days, as bitter and broken as he was. Who the hell else would? He'd already found the person of his dreams once, had three beautiful children…

A miracle like that didn't happen twice.

All he wanted—and could have—now was to get himself back, and then go off to live in peace and quiet. No moresneaking, no more playing pretend, no more killing and waiting to be killed.

The first step was to make nice with Algernon Lachapelle. If there was a god, or gods, boy did they have a hate on for him.

Tired of looking like Taser, he shifted to one of his many made up bodies, of a biracial man with predominantly Chinese features, a composite of models and popstars he'd created and tweaked over the years. Scrubbing at his hair, thick and soft and nothing like Taser's stiffer strands, he went in search of Scones to begin Project Make Nice with the Mortal Enemy.

Because whatever his doubts or suspicions, Scones had put a bullet right in the T-zone of several of the most dangerous Dogs in the world. That alone was a death sentence, but that he was also a traitor?

If he was related to literally anyone else in the G.O.D. Oberon might almost admire the bastard.

When Scones turned up nowhere in the house, even his own room, where he'd left the door wide open like some sort of dumbass, Oberon gritted his teeth and ventured into the great outdoors. It was warm, but not overbearing, and thankfully the humidity was minimal around here, unlike the last time he'd had to go all the way up into the mountains. Humidity was stupid, and he hated it.

He followed the footpath that led from the backyard into the woods surrounding the house, mentally cursing Scones for venturing outside, where there were bugs and sunburn and bears and a thousand other annoyances he didn't have to suffer in the city.

"If I get eaten by a mountain lion or a bear, my ghost is going to lure everyone into the woods to suffer the same fate," Oberon muttered as he walked. Give him the worst G.O.D. goons available, he'd take all of them over being stalked by a cougar or surprised by a grizzly.

Thankfully, he found Scones before wildlife found him, sulking by the lakeshore skipping stones. "Really? You flounce off in a snit and come to skip rocks like the world's most ridiculous teenage stereotype?"

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