Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
T he double chime of our phones wakes us up before the sun. Fox doesn’t seem to have the disorientation of waking up mid-cycle that I do and rouses me with a shake as he puts my phone in my hand.
Squinting at the message from the depot, I have to ask myself whether they’re cruel for waking me up two hours before my appointment time or if they’re smart enough to realize it would take me an hour before I’d be ready to leave the house.
Instead of immediately getting up, I glomp onto Fox and pull him back down into a cuddle, laying over him and nuzzling into his chest. I float in a doze for a short while before Fox pats my butt and kisses the top of my head. “Coffee, work, breakfast date,” he murmurs.
The words have the effect he intended, exciting me enough to roll off him and shoot him a happy smile as I head to my room, morning wood leading the way.
He gives me a definitively heated look and palms his own erection, watching me walk away.
We’re going to have amazing chemistry as soon as I get him naked after our third date. This is me sticking to the plan.
Even though it hasn’t been cleaned yet, I put on the brown and gold suit again. It complements my coloring and makes me feel sexy, and since we’re going on a date after he kills a man, I want to feel like I look my best.
Putting on my makeup and fixing my hair takes less time today, because practice makes perfect, and in less time than I expect, I’m sipping on another delicious cup of fancy coffee, watching Fox strap on his weapons.
He forgoes the sword today, sheathing a shorter, but no less deadly, blade.
It’s a bit over a foot long and shiny with a black handle wrapped in leather.
My timer runs down while he’s getting ready, so I finish my last few swallows, give him a kiss goodbye, and put my bloody boots on, heading out the door.
I should probably get the boots cleaned or figure out how to clean them myself.
Leaving a trail of dried flecks of blood everywhere I walk is probably not the best idea.
A cab sits in front of the house, and the cabbie waves me over. As I get into the back, he turns and gives me a tight smile. I recognize his emerald eyes from the church run and the one after that. “Address?”
I show him the address on my phone and watch him input it into his GPS before he pulls into the flow of traffic.
I wonder why Harbingers ride for free and why Fox doesn’t ride with me?
It would make sense to share a cab since we’re leaving from and heading to the same place.
He doesn’t need that much extra time to get ready; we should discuss this, so I send him a text.
Me: Is there a reason we can’t take the same cab next time?
Future Husband (I take great delight in knowing that he’s getting messages from me with the same label): Yes .
Me: Is this a reason I can intuit on my own, or are you planning to elaborate?
Future Husband: If I take a cab, I pay for myself. If you take a cab, you ride for free. But if I take you in a cab, I pay for both of us.
And I like having the extra time after you leave to rub one out.
Me: *shocked gasp* *eggplant* *peach* *water drops* THIRD DATE.
I don’t use emojis; I write all that out with a silent laugh bubbling out of me.
Future Husband: Some of us aren’t that patient .
Me: I’ve been saving my next orgasm for you, and you’re over there rubbing one out every chance you get. I should’ve known you wouldn’t wait for me.
Future Husband sends me a dick pic with his hand covered in cum.
Me: Cheater!
Future Husband: You’re the one with a plan. I’m just along for the ride.
Wait just a gosh darn second. Fox doesn’t have balls.
Me: Where did that cum come from?
Future Husband: My dick?
Me: YOU DON’T HAVE BALLS!!!
Future Husband: I do.
“We’re here,” the cabbie interrupts.
I check the time and sigh, putting my phone away and getting out, patting his shoulder in thanks. Clearly Fox isn’t one hundred percent human, so now I have to figure out what he is, and I can't think of any mythical creatures that keep their testicles somewhere other than right below their dicks.
Maybe I’ll google it while I wait for Fox to finish working.
The address is a duplex, and I’m supposed to go to the B apartment.
I’m not sure if I should knock, but it seems rude to just walk into someone's home. Not that that’s ever stopped me before.
And really, the guy is going to die, so rudeness seems like a pointless worry. Eh, I’ll split the difference.
I knock while turning the unlocked door—who keeps their door unlocked in this city? Anyone could waltz in off the street.
Like me.
I waltz into the house, startling the grubby man lounging on the sofa in a beer-stained white A-shirt and valentines boxers. A cigarette hangs from his lips and an overflowing ashtray sits at his elbow.
He looks at me, and I look at him, and then I sort of just step out of the way of the door, making sure not to touch anything. This place is dirty, and I don’t say that lightly. I’ve been homeless; I’d prefer that to living here. And the man gives me the creeps.
“What’s a Harbinger doing in Montenegro’s pleasure palace?” His slimy voice oozes out of him as he grabs his junk.
Gross.
“Montenegro hasn’t done anything to warrant a visit from a Harbinger, unless the Harbinger comes for the pleasure of his company.”
He eyes me up and down, and if I wasn’t one hundred percent sure he couldn’t touch me, I might’ve walked out again.
Slimy bastard. I don’t know what he did or if he’s Montenegro, but the guy is giving me the vibes and those vibes are saying he probably shouldn’t be allowed to live on the same planet as me or anyone else.
Fortunately, before he can do more than creep me out, Fox shows up.
He takes one look at me, unholsters a gun, and shoots the dude right between the eyes.
It makes a bloody mess of bone and brain matter on the back of the sofa, but I feel better knowing he doesn’t exist in this world anymore.
Without a word, Fox unsheathes his really long knife and heads up the stairs.
A few bumps on the ceiling above me later, a head comes rolling down the stairs, stopping at the bottom of the landing.
Huh. I guess Montenegro was upstairs.
Fox comes down after the head, leading four dirty children.
My eyes grow wide at the sight of them; two kids between eight and ten hold onto two babies about the same age.
It’s a very Lemony Snicket visual for half a second, but the kids don’t look at all sad at finding the two men dead, and their wicked smiles ruin the Snicket vibe.
Fox ushers us all out of the house before stopping to make a phone call. “Got them all alive.”
He puts his phone back into his pocket and looks down at the kids. “Your parents will be here shortly. Stay with the gargoyles.”
The eldest child nods. “Thanks for the assist.”
Fox nods once, takes my hand, and leads me to the sidewalk. “They’re older than you. It was a kidnapping and ransom,” he explains. At my skeptical disbelief he adds, “The babies were born thirty years ago. It takes hundreds of years for cherubs to grow up.”
Oookaaay. I would never have guessed that on my own. Good thing I’m not taking points away for wrong guesses. I squeeze Fox’s hand, letting him know I understand, and he walks me over a couple of blocks to a hole-in-the-wall diner much like the one where we met.
I tense as we enter, but no one attacks, and the hostess seats us in a booth, smiling at my Fox with hearts in her eyes. “What can I get you to drink, Mr. Fox?”
Oh, did you think I was speaking metaphorically when I mentioned the heart eyes? No, she’s fangirling for sure, but her pupils are actually shaped like hearts too.
“Coffee and apple juice.” The coffee better be for me.
“Right away, sir. Um, can I get your autograph?” She holds out her notepad and pen.
Fox stares at it like he has no idea what it’s for and turns away from her, sending me a silent plea to save him.
I laugh and look up at the girl, shaking my head. No autographs.
She scowls at me for a brief second before realization hits and she shoves her pen and notebook at me. “Can I get your autograph?”
I shake my head, shaking with laughter, and push the notebook away.
Huffing, the girl walks away, stopping to talk to one of the servers before heading back to the hostess stand.
I slide my hand across the table, taking Fox’s as I pull out my phone. Dates require conversation, right? Not the silent kind we usually have. Actual words.
So about this balls thing…
I smirk at him as he reads my message and am gifted with his amusement twinkling in his eyes.
He types his answer under my words.
Internal genitals are a feature of many species.
And now I have to decide if I’m willing to play the game or if I should ask outright.
I narrow my eyes at him, considering all the clues so far.
Sensitivity to metal on his skin, but not to bullets under it.
He’s faster than a human normally is, but not so fast it’s out of the range of possibility for a human.
At least not that I’ve seen. He does make good time on our work runs, especially if he’s taking the time to masturbate first. Oh, I have a good question!
Why don’t you have more scars?
“They disappear after about a month,” he murmurs in response.
Interesting.
How old are you?
He gives me a sly look, but it disappears as our server brings our drinks. “Good morning, Mr. Fox. Harbinger. I’ll have your food out shortly,” she says by way of greeting and then leaves without taking our order.
Not that we got menus.
I arch a brow at Fox, who sips his apple juice. “Just wait.”
Since he’s not going to explain what we’re eating, I tap my phone again, reminding him of my question.
He looks up at the ceiling, telling me he’s doing math in his head—how adorable is it that he does that every time he has to calculate? Also, how old is he that he has to calculate his age???
“About thirty-six hundred years. I don’t usually pay attention to more than the passing centuries now,” he replies in his soft, deep tone. Somehow I doubt he gets loud very often.
So, I might have a guess, but if I get it right, it will only be one point because I can’t possibly pin down his subspecies.
Fae?
“A quarter,” he agrees, then points to his dark eyes and shows me the fire in them. “Another quarter.”
Part Fae, part demon.
Human?
“Quarter,” he smirks.
Oh gawd. One more species.
Hint?
“The wings on my back aren’t tattoos.”
Oh. Now that is interesting. His back has script on it, a foreign language in an arc over a couple of black wings that could be from any kind of bird.
Between the wings is a shield with a sword behind it and below that a smoking revolver.
Like I said, they are totally mob tattoos. Well, organized crime, anyway.
And yes, Daddy runs a criminal organization, even if we are the good guys.
Angel?
I mean, we did just save some cherubs, so I know the angelic exists; it’s not a bad guess.
Fox shakes his head. “You’ll never guess.”
Challenge accepted.
Raven shifter?
He shakes his head again, hiding his amusement behind a sip of juice.
I will figure it out.
Fox clears the amusement away as our server brings over a tray of food.
She sets a skillet in front of me with fried eggs over lots of sautéed vegetables and potatoes with salsa on the side, adds a plate of lemon curd crepes (that’s what she tells me they are), and sets down a side of cut melon.
She gives Fox a platter covered in gravy, announcing it’s chicken fried steak and biscuits and gravy, and then she wanders off without asking about condiments.
Not that I need any, and it looks like Fox is getting his recommended eight cups of gravy a day in one meal, so he probably doesn’t need to add anything to his either.
I eye his platter, shaking my head at the insane amount of gravy on it.
Are you sure there’s actual food under all that?
Fox chuckles, surprising me with the sound. “Eat your food, Romily. The Captain doesn’t allow leftovers.”
It’s like he says things to purposely leave me with more questions than answers. Like, who is the Captain and why is he obsessed with leftovers?