Chapter 27 #2
“My associates will come too,” Deacon tells her. It isn’t a question. He motions with one hand, and Ward and I stomp after them like soldiers, the small hostess weaving us nimbly through the crowded restaurant.
“I thought you were the charming one,” I mutter under my breath.
Ward only shrugs. “I wear many hats.”
“Whichever Deacon asks of you, I’m sure.” Ward doesn’t respond, and I decide it’s as good an opportunity as any to ask what’s been nagging at me. “Is he your alpha?”
In wolves and werewolves both, betas function as the second-in-command, often bigger and stronger than the alpha, while the alpha is more cunning. More fit to lead. But the betas are necessary—enforcers who maintain discipline among the pack. Ward fits the bill to a tee.
I don’t realize it’s a rude question until I catch the grim line of Ward’s mouth.
If Baz is the shadow-shrouded mournful mask of tragedy, Ward is easygoing, often-laughing comedy—I’ve never seen him look irritated unless I’ve brought Penny somewhere I shouldn’t have.
Even the night he kicked us out of Fever Dream he seemed to be having a good time.
“Sorry. I—”
“Quiet,” he says, tense.
I’m about to tell him it was just a question and not to get his tail in a twist, but I feel the buzz in my skin a minute later. A gnawing, skittering rush.
Brood. Here in the restaurant.
I cut my eyes up and spot him instantly. A demon with a weak chin and cruelty in his eyes. And those eyes lock right onto mine.
I duck behind Ward, watching as his entire body grows taut with the coming fight.
Shoulders and biceps rippling. That protective instinct nothing short of animalistic.
But also tactful. Patient. He doesn’t rush me out, which would draw attention.
Nor attack. He stands, masking me with his hulking body and scent and amiable face.
Moves us deeper into the crowd until I’m sure the demon has lost us.
I peek around Ward’s ribs to spy the Brood demon whipping out his phone. He shoots off a furious text and hurries up the stairs to the noisy second floor of the restaurant to keep looking.
“Move,” Ward urges. We hurry to catch up with Deacon just as the freckled hostess is guiding him into the kitchen.
The racket of shouting line cooks and scent of fryer oil slam into me so hard I have to grip the corner of a steel countertop to weather the onslaught of sensory chaos.
My heart is still racing from the Brood demon’s proximity.
“We have company,” Ward says quietly to his alpha. “Brood know she’s here.”
Deacon gives a genial one second finger to the hostess. “They follow us from the club?”
Meaning, do they know I’m staying with him and not at Harker? My throat nearly closes. I don’t know where I’ll go—where I’ll take Penny and Hound—if I can’t stay at Fever Dream anymore.
But Ward shakes his head, expression calm, even as his muscles remain tensed. “Don’t think so. It was just one. Maybe he was already here and noticed a girl who fit Finn’s description.”
“That’s probably why Reid sent me clues about the place instead of checking it out himself. Maybe it’s frequented by Brood because of this Nicco guy.”
Ward raises an annoyed brow. “So he sent you to take the risk for him?”
“No,” Deacon says. “Reid thinks his girlfriend will be a self-preserving little mouse and stay all holed up at Harker.” He rolls his eyes. “I bet he thought Vivienne would send her goonie squad or her teacher/sister/mentor to scope the place for her.”
“Fiona,” I snap. But I’m not angry at Deacon. I’m angry at myself. Angry that Deacon knows Reid’s morality better than I do. And my bad habits better than Reid does. How many times did I have to remind Reid that I would never put my fight in someone else’s hands?
“If a Brood had seen us leave the club, we’d have a swarm on our hands,” Ward says. “But the lone ranger may have called for backup. He definitely got eyes on Viv.”
“We’ll be quick,” Deacon says, eyes cutting to me as if to make sure I’m okay with that. I’m so caught off guard it takes me a beat too long to nod my agreement.
“Maybe Snow White here should ditch the goth uniform and dye her hair or something.”
I take offense to this for many reasons. The first being that just because I look good in black and feel comfortable in it does not mean I’m goth. Goth is an entire subculture spanning punk music and horror films. And I have, in fact, been known to rock white, maroon, gray, a lovely charcoal—
“She’ll be fine,” Deacon says, something like distaste curling the corners of his mouth. He looks about as uninspired by the idea as I am.
“Nicco is back there,” the hostess announces over our whispering. The girl does have a job to do, and I wince in apology. She points at a back office past the industrial fridge.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Deacon says.
The way her eyes go gooey turns my stomach. I shake my head in mild irritation.
“You’re quiet today,” Deacon says coolly. “Have something to say?”
My eyes follow the way the hostess nearly stumbles out of the kitchen trying to get another look at him. “I just don’t get it.”
“Sure you do.”
“No,” I grit out. “I don’t.”
His silence unnerves me. When I angle my head up at him, I find some kind of devilish realization spreading across his features.
“What?”
“I think…” He shakes his head as if in awe. “I think you want me.”
My heart drops into my stomach, and I move for the back office. “What I want is to talk to this djinn.”
Deacon leans close as he walks beside me, clove and tobacco invading my senses. “Sure. Or we could fuck?”
My patience shreds to a single thread. Today of all days. After the lagoon and my dreams and seeing Reid and being a breath away from one of Finn’s men finding me and—
I stop short to glower up at him. “I would rather slice off my own fingers and swallow each of them whole.”
Deacon raises a single brow. “So you swallow?”
I abandon him in the middle of the kitchen and slam open the door to Nicco’s office, relieved beyond measure at the sudden quiet and the lack of carnivorous smells.
Framed clippings from the Astera Times hang on all four walls, hailing Simon and Son’s as a runaway success.
Celebrities have signed photos of themselves eating burgers the size of my head.
The djinn behind the desk is too young to be sporting such a bad comb-over and tacky suitcoat, but all I care about is the uncanny quiet. The fact that not a single zing races through my skin. I’m standing before a deviant, and I feel nothing.