Page 110 of The Evening Wolves

“Pops!”

Emery scruffed a hand through Colt’s hair as he passed him to join John-Henry in the kitchen. “If it burns going down, my son.”

Indecision twisted Colt’s face. “Fine. Level three.”

John-Henry wrote the order down. “What about you? Besides the dumplings.”

Emery grabbed the takeout menu from the fridge and said, “They should start printing the sodium content on these things.”

Biscuit must have had a dog’s intuition because she trotted over to rub against Emery’s leg.

“Mind your own business,” Emery told her.

It was Christmas, even if it didn’t feel like it. From the beginning of the day, everything had been off. Emery had slept late and been distant throughout the morning, although he’d warmed up as the day went on. John-Henry hadn’t slept much either, in part because the couch wasn’t all that comfortable, and in part because he’d stayed there anyway, unwilling to send Colt to bed, and thus had been woken again and again by Colt’s nightmares. The boy’s fears, from what he could tell, were less about the fact that he had, in essence, been abducted and more about the fight he’d overheard at the hotel—and, of course, its aftermath. John-Henry himself had dreamed of the fight—that first instant of surprise, when Koby had emerged from the alcove and John-Henry had seen the kama scything through the air toward him. And then the blind, helpless fury at the end, when the Glock had kicked in his hands. He’d woken to the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t wipe away. Even though it seemed like things might finally be moving in the right direction, with both Cassidy and the man they called Koby trying to cut a deal, the weight of the last week—hell, the weight of the last year—was still crushing.

But since it was Christmas, and since they hadn’t planned or prepared or done anything Christmas-y, not since the charges had been brought against John-Henry, they were going to round out the day with takeout from China Village, and that was going to be that. Definitely not the best Christmas ever, but maybe the one they needed.

“Ree, come on. You want the General Tso’s. Just tell me you want the General Tso’s so I can call this in.”

“I might not want the General Tso’s. I might want the moo goo gai pan.”

“Uh huh.”

“I might want the pork egg foo young.”

“I’m calling in the order, love.”

Grumbling, Emery returned the menu to the side of the fridge, and John-Henry placed the call. Emery returned to his book—something on forensic entomology that John-Henry had banned from the kitchen—and Colt went back to Die Hard. The original, of course. John-Henry joined him because that’s what good dads did.

When the doorbell rang, John-Henry said, “That was fast.”

“Colt,” Emery said without looking up from his book.

John-Henry was still fighting against the aches and stiffness of the last few days, trying to get to his feet, when Colt rolled off the couch and padded toward the front door. Biscuit raced to catch up with him.

“We’re getting old,” John-Henry told Emery.

Emery snorted and turned a page.

Colt sprinted back through the living room and charged up the stairs. Biscuit darted back and forth, obviously torn between inspecting the strangers at the front door and following the person she loved most in the entire universe.

“What the hell?” Emery asked.

“Bubs—” John-Henry tried.

“I’ve got to change!” Colt screamed back at them.

“Why would he—” Emery stopped and said, “Good God, no.”

John-Henry was still trying to get up from the couch—maybe the springs had gone bad, and that’s why it felt so sinky and difficult to escape—when the front door opened.

“—because that’s why people have doors, jerkweed,” North was saying.

“But the door was unlocked,” Shaw said, his voice moving toward the living room. “And, on account of my natural soulmatedness with Emery—”

“What are you doing here?” Emery asked as North and Shaw stepped into the room.

Shaw was dressed in what John-Henry was sure had been billed as a sexy Santa’s elf leotard that he’d upgraded with candy-cane-striped thigh-high socks. The knee-high suede boots matched the deep green of the leotard. It looked like he might be wearing garters. Biscuit immediately began to growl at him.

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