Chapter 4 Toolie
Toolie
The Royal Bastards MC clubhouse had all the windows shut against the rain, so the inside was an aquarium for smoke and the long, slow rot of spilt whiskey.
I sat at the corner table, same seat I’d taken every day for the past month, elbow propped so I could see the front door and the back hallway both.
The glass in my hand was half-full, same as I was.
Moab stood by the jukebox, leaning on it like he was waiting for a song that would never come.
His arms folded, gaze on the door, the veins in his neck standing out as if he could will the night to end early.
Canon was a statue beside him, hands behind his back, like he was set up for a mugshot or a firing squad.
He’d worn his black tee, the one with the bleach stain across the belly, because he knew it bothered me.
Scarlette had the bar to herself, cleaning a blade beneath the counter with a red shop rag. Her boots were up on the rail, soles scuffed white. She didn’t look at me, but I could feel the tension rolling off her in sheets. She was pissed about something, but that was Scarlette’s baseline.
Vin was hunched at the table’s edge, scribbling notes into a battered Moleskine.
Every so often, he’d pause, nibble at the cap of his pen, then write again, fast and jagged.
I’d bet my left nut he was cross-referencing my bullshit dreams with the club’s own cargo manifest. Guy loved a good spreadsheet.
The only sound was the hum of the fridge behind the bar and the wet, animal growl of Moab’s breath. I sipped my whiskey, kept the glass to my lips as long as I could.
Then the door exploded open, kicked wide with more drama than the RBMC usually managed on a Tuesday.
Mama Celeste strode in, skirts snapping around her calves like angry silk, a trail of incense curling off her shoulder like an afterburn.
She filled the entryway with a force that shoved the air out ahead of her and made every head in the place swing to watch.
Her hair was black as carbon, silver streaks shining in the club lights, and her eyes were two chips of obsidian that made you want to apologize for shit you hadn’t even done yet.
She walked straight for me, not bothering to shake the rain off her shawl.
Every step of her boots rang out, sharp and steady.
Vin was the first to move, popping to his feet with a nervous cough. “Celeste. Didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Of course not.” She smiled, all teeth. “Men rarely expect what’s necessary.”
I felt the others closing in behind me. Moab’s shadow draped over the table, and Canon posted up at my three o’clock. Even Scarlette stopped pretending to clean and let her knife dangle, attention fixed on Celeste.
She planted herself across from me, hands flat on the battered Formica. The stink of the incense hit me first—cloves, maybe, or whatever they embalm saints with. For a second, I thought she was going to slap me.
Instead, she leaned in, voice low and liquid, filled with her Louisiana accent. “Your Catherine calls to you across time itself.”
The words rattled something under my breastbone. I gripped the glass harder, felt my knuckles bleach out. Nobody said a word. Not even Vin.
Celeste flicked her eyes up, caught Moab’s glare, and swatted it aside. “The connection between souls knows no boundaries of time or space, my boy. If you want to find her, you’ll need to do more than sit and drink yourself sideways.”
I didn’t answer. My tongue felt too big for my mouth.
She slid a palm toward mine, long fingers haloed by silver rings. “We must go to Ireland. To the place you first awoke. The cemetery.”
Scarlette scraped her boots off the bar, swung them to the floor, hard. “That’s insane. It’s too fucking dangerous.”
Celeste’s gaze snapped to Scarlette, and for a moment, the two of them could’ve burned the whole block down just by staring. “Denying your gifts doesn’t make them disappear, child,” she said. “You of all people should know that.”
Scarlette’s jaw flexed. I saw her thumb tighten on the knife handle, but she kept it down.
Vin stood and raised a hand for everyone to shut the hell up. “It’s already been decided. The club is footing the bill.” He pointed at Mama Celeste. “One more won’t hurt.”
Celeste didn’t blink. “Then it’s done.”
Scarlette swore, loud and guttural. “Fucking shit.”
Moab chuckled, knowing Scarlette had never been on a plane and only seen them in the sky.
The room emptied of sound again, except for Vin’s frantic note-taking and the click of Canon’s teeth.
Celeste reached across the table and touched my hand, just the barest brush of skin. It felt like electricity. “You’ll find her, Sully,” she said. “But you may not like the price.”
She stood, gathering her skirts and her smoke, and left without another word. The door didn’t slam this time—it shut soft, like she’d taken the rest of the night with her.
We sat there, the five of us, looking at each other like we’d just agreed to rob a church.
Scarlette exhaled through her nose, then glared at me. “Hope she’s worth it.”
I thought about Catherine. The way her hair fell across her cheek. The sound of her voice, bright as glass in a bell. The way her hands fit mine. “She is,” I said.
Scarlette sighed and grabbed another beer. “Remember, if you get her here, she’ll be fucking scared to death.” She took a long drink and wiped her mouth.
She was right. The Catherine I wanted—the one I remembered—lived in a world of fire and famine and had never seen a working toilet, let alone a city pumped full of electric light.
If we succeeded in dragging her through time, she’d lose everything she’d called real.
But I also knew she wouldn’t hesitate. Catherine walked into war for love, stomped through mud, gored sheep, and English pikes because quitting was for people who felt sorry for themselves.
The scary part wasn’t losing her again. The scary part was seeing if the real thing matched the ghost.