Chapter Fifteen Saylor #2
The gesture is unconsciously protective, casually courteous, and I find myself wondering if Blue realizes he’s doing it.
There’s something old-fashioned about the way he moves through the world.
Like he was raised by people who believed in opening doors and treating women like they were made of something precious.
“Smart man. Never anger the person who controls your food supply.”
The front windows display the most elaborate pastries I’ve ever seen—three-tiered cakes decorated with sugar flowers in impossible
colors, éclairs filled with what resembles liquid gold, croissants shaped like tiny works of art. But it’s the attention to
detail that takes my breath away. Every sugar rose has individual petals, every éclair is perfectly glazed, the croissants
are identical to one another, showing obsessive care. Nothing on display is flawed.
A bell above the door chimes a complex melody as we enter. Not the simple ding of most shops, but an actual composition that
could be mistaken for wind chimes caught in a gentle breeze. I step into what can only be described as a curiosity shop that
happens to sell pastries.
The bakery is crammed floor to ceiling with treasures that have nothing to do with baking. Mismatched chairs surround tiny
tables set with delicate china tea services. Shelves line every available wall space, displaying teapots shaped like fantastical
creatures, vintage books with cracked leather spines, pocket watches that tick at different rhythms, and an extensive butterfly
collection in glass cases that throw rainbow patterns across the walls when sunlight hits them.
But it’s the man behind the counter who makes everything else look ordinary by comparison.
Elliott Cupp moves like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra, his hands dancing through the air as he arranges sugar flowers
on a cake that defies several laws of physics. He looks about forty, but his hair is completely gray. He’s wearing a pristine
white baker’s apron over a three-piece suit in blue velvet that makes Blue’s beard look subtle. His hair is Einstein-wild,
and his pale green eyes have the unfocused look of someone who’s always listening to something just out of earshot.
“Elliott,” Blue calls gently. “I’ve brought someone to meet you.”
Elliott looks up, and for a moment his eyes snap into laser focus. “Blue! Perfect timing, my dear boy,” he says, his voice carrying the faint warmth of somewhere farther south. “Been expecting you.”
A man emerges from the kitchen, and I have to work to keep my appearance unemotional. He’s tall and lean with a build that
indicates an intense exercise routine—broad shoulders that fill out his cream linen shirt perfectly, sleeves rolled to reveal
forearms decorated with intricate tattoos that look like botanical illustrations. Dark auburn hair catches copper highlights
where flour dust has settled, and when he looks up from wiping his hands on a towel, storm-gray eyes assess me with attention
that makes me think he’s cataloging everything about me in seconds.
“Ash Cupp,” he says, extending a flour-dusted hand. His voice has that same subtle warmth as Elliott’s, like honey over steel.
“I knew your father, ma’am. I’m sorry for your loss. Peter was . . . I liked him.”
The words carry genuine grief, and I can see that his sympathy is real rather than polite. But there’s something else in the
way he stands—perfectly positioned between Elliott and the rest of the room, like he’s protecting his brother without making
it obvious. His hands are gentle when he touches Elliott’s shoulder, but I catch a glimpse of scars on his knuckles that suggest
they’ve seen violence.
“Blue,” Ash continues, his attention morphing completely to business. “I was hoping to see you before the party. There’s a
lot of chatter going down right now. Not good chatter. The Crow are gathering—more than usual. And they’re not just asking
about Saylor anymore.”
My stomach drops. Blue’s hand on my back doesn’t move.
“They’re putting a price on your head now too,” Ash says, glancing at me apologetically. “Seems you made quite an impression.”
Blue shrugs, completely unbothered. “Good. Message received.”
The casual dismissal of what sounds like a death sentence makes me stare at him. Who reacts like that to news that people
want to kill you?
Elliott continues his decorating, humming softly.
“Oh, they’re all atwitter about it,” he says dreamily.
“Did you know that a flock of crows is called a murder? How fitting.” He pauses in his work, those pale green eyes focusing on Blue with sudden clarity.
“Off with his head, they’re saying. Quite dramatic, really. ”
Blue actually smiles. “Let them come.”
“At least a dozen confirmed,” Ash continues, his jaw tight as he absently checks a silver pocket watch. “Maybe more on the
way. They’re not playing games anymore, Blue. They want both of you dead, and they’re bringing enough firepower to level half
of Grimlock if they have to.”
Blue nods, completely unsurprised. “Good. About time they stopped playing games.”
Ash fidgets uncomfortably, positioning himself slightly closer to Elliott. “They’re bringing heavy artillery. Military-grade
weapons.”
“Like I said . . . good.” Blue grins like Ash just told him Christmas is coming early. “I’ve got plenty more messages to send.”
I stare at him, trying to process what I’m hearing. The man who puts his hand on my back to guide me through doorways and
who is worried about Wren’s pastry preferences is standing here shrugging off the threat of heavy artillery. There’s something
almost eager in him, like he’s been waiting for this excuse to let loose whatever he keeps carefully contained.
Elliott begins humming again, something that sounds vaguely funeral-esque. “We’re painting the roses red,” he murmurs dreamily,
adding copper touches to his sugar flowers. “All the pretty roses red.”
I want to shake both of them. How can they be so calm about this?
Blue pays for a box of pastries that Ash wraps with the careful attention of someone packaging explosives, and we prepare
to leave as if we didn’t just have the most bizarre—even terrifying—conversation possible. But the afternoon has given me
a better sense of how Grimlock works, and more importantly, how Blue fits into it.
It seems as if death is . . . casual here.
As we prepare to leave, Elliott looks up from his work again. “Saylor,” he says, more focused than before. “Tonight will be . . .
revealing. Grimlock parties usually are.”
“Revealing how?”
“You’ll see,” Elliott says simply, then returns to his decorating as if the conversation never happened.
Outside the bakery, I ask Blue, “What did he mean about revealing?”
“Elliott has a way of seeing patterns other people miss,” Blue says as we walk toward the main square. “He’s usually right
about social dynamics.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“Because I don’t have one yet,” Blue admits. “But Elliott’s rarely wrong about these things.”
“What’s their story?” I ask as we walk away from the Upper Crust. “There’s something about Ash—the way he watches everything,
positions himself to protect Elliott. And those tattoos . . .”
Blue glances back at the bakery. “Elliott’s got early-onset dementia. Started showing signs about three years ago. Ash gave
up everything to take care of him.”
“Gave up what?”
“He used to work for the Crow. Intelligence gathering, mostly. They called him the Collector. Word is something went very
wrong on his last job, and he realized he had to choose between his brother and that life.”
“And he chose Elliott.”
“Without hesitation. The Crow consider him a traitor now, but he knows too many of their secrets for them to move against
him directly.” Blue’s face grows thoughtful. “Ash is probably one of the most dangerous men in Grimlock, but he channels all
that energy into keeping Elliott safe and happy. Makes the best coffee in town too. Learned it during surveillance work where
he had to stay awake for days.”
I think about the protectiveness in his positioning, his voice. “That’s why he warned you about the Crow gathering. He’s still
got sources.”
“Exactly. And if Ash is concerned enough to warn me, it means they’re finally bringing a real fight.” Blue’s smile turns predatory.
“Now the real fun can begin.”
We reach the car where Hans waits, engine idling. He spots us approaching and immediately gets out to open my door.
“All good, Boss?” Hans asks Blue while helping me into the passenger seat.
“All good. Any issues while we were gone?”
“Everything is clean. Quiet afternoon.” Hans closes my door and circles to the driver’s side.
As we settle into our seats, I realize that the afternoon has shifted something between Blue and me. Understanding, maybe.
I’m starting to see how Grimlock works, how Blue fits into it, why people respect him and genuinely care about him. But more
importantly . . . I’m really starting to like the guy. He’s charming. He’s a gentleman. He’s . . . yeah, so maybe he’s a killer,
but he’s also . . . genuine.
“Ready to head back?” Blue asks.
“I should probably figure out what to wear tonight at this party.”
“Wren will have thoughts about that,” Blue says with a slight smile.
“Should I be worried about her thoughts?”
“Only if you’re planning to wear something she considers inappropriate for the occasion.” Blue’s tone hints this is a real
possibility. “Wren takes parties very seriously.”
“More seriously than kidnapping, apparently.”
“Different skill sets,” Blue says without missing a beat.
As Hans drives us back through Grimlock’s winding streets, I watch the town pass through the windows and realize I’m not thinking
about escape anymore. I’m thinking about tonight, about meeting these people properly, about what Elliott meant when he said
the evening would be revealing.
For the first time since Dad died, I’m curious about what comes next instead of just trying to survive it.