CHAPTER 29 JAMESON
JAMESON
It was one in the morning by the time Jameson and Xander made it to the Hawthorne flat in London—too late for Jameson to do much about finding a way into the Devil’s Mercy.
“You need to sleep,” Xander told him, turning on the foyer light.
“What’s sleep?” Jameson said, his voice coming out a little raspy.
On the plane, he’d tried to will himself into another flashback, to drift off into memory, but he hadn’t been able to.
“We need to strategize. The Mercy—” Jameson cut off and went very still.
He glanced at Xander, who fell into a ready position, turning his back to the closest wall.
He heard something, too, Jameson realized. Two rooms over. There was someone else in the flat.
Xander flipped the light switch back off, as Jameson put his own back to the wall.
He marked the sound of almost-silent footsteps coming closer, and when a figure rounded the corner, instinct washed away everything else.
Jameson had spent years of his childhood studying martial arts. He knew how to fight—and how to win.
He threw all of his weight behind a ruthless first blow that should have debilitated his opponent—but didn’t. Within another second, it was apparent to Jameson: We’re matched for size. We’re matched for skill.
But Jameson had nothing to lose.
That should have given him the advantage, but it didn’t, because his opponent was equally heedless of risks, equally fearless in every way that mattered.
And Jameson needed sleep. He took a clip to the chin as Xander flew into the mix with a war cry that was at least forty percent yodel.
Two-on-one, their target didn’t stand a chance.
Within seconds, Jameson and Xander had him pinned. Jameson pressed his forearm into the man’s neck, cutting off the flow of air.
“Xander, get the light.”
Xander obliged, and the second he did, Jameson abruptly let loose of the man beneath him. The Hawthorne beneath him.
“What the hell, Toby?” The sudden absence of adrenaline hit Jameson like a wave trying to drag him under.
“You drop your punches on the left side.” Toby popped his jaw. “And you look like crap.”
“Did someone send you?” Jameson demanded. “Alisa? You can tell her that I don’t need adult supervision.”
“Alisa is not the one who sent me here, and you very clearly do.” Toby reached forward to grab Jameson’s face, thumbs under his eyes. “Pupils can’t maintain a constant size.” Toby looked to Xander. “Is he sleeping at all? Eating?”
“Don’t answer that,” Jameson told Xander, and then he rounded back on Toby. “Avery’s missing.”
How much would you be sleeping or eating, Jameson thought, if it was Hannah? Hannah had been Avery’s mother and Toby’s love. Just thinking about that had the old man’s voice echoing in Jameson’s mind: My love, my love, my one and only love.
Jameson’s grandfather had always said that when you loved the way that Hawthornes loved, there was no going back.
“If Alisa didn’t send you…” Jameson jerked his face away from Toby’s hold. “Who did?”
Haunted green eyes met Jameson’s, reminding him that Toby had fought like a man possessed, like a man who had nothing to lose.
“Answer the question,” Jameson said, his chest tightening. “Who sent you?”
Toby’s lips parted. “Hannah.”