by Megan Derr
A shudder ran down Deacon's spine.
"Shit," one of the other goblins muttered. "You mean Wyatt Thorne?"
"You know any other Thornes that are crazy alchemists?" the alchemist snapped.
The goblins shared a looked, and one of them said, "He works for Black, who works for Mordred. It's time to go."
"But I'm not done," the alchemist whined.
"Too bad." The nearest goblin grabbed him, and then they were gone, fleeing down the street.
Wyatt unfolded from his shadows and rejoined Deacon and Pentacle.
Deacon didn't even know where to start. "The next time you plant a trap, you tell me," he hissed. "What if it had been me or Pentacle that tripped it? What if we'd been near it when it tripped?"
"It was rigged for the casting alchemist only; the light side effect wouldn't have hurt you."
"That's not the point!" Deacon bellowed, no longer caring about caution. "The light could have distracted us long enough for someone to get a kill in! It could have caused friendly fire! The point is that you communicate with your team, instead of doing your own thing like we don't matter enough to be kept apprised!"
Wyatt stared wide-eyed. "Okay. I'm sorry. It wasn't like that. I set it and meant to tell you, then got distracted by other things. By the time I realized I'd forgotten, it was too late. I'm sorry."
Deacon bit back a snarl because it was purely frustration and fear at that point. "Fine." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "What was all that about you? Why did that alchemist spook when he realized you were the one who set it? Why did he call you a psychopath?"
One corner of Wyatt's mouth tipped up in a crooked little grin that made Deacon want to kiss him senseless. Ya Allah, he needed a vacation. "His name is Caiman, as in the alligatorid, and he called me a bitchy little psychopath, Captain. Because that's what I am."
"You're a cocky brat who needs to work on his communication skills, but I don't get a psychopath vibe from you."
The stupid hot grin collapsed. "Trust me, he's not wrong. As to how we know each other: alchemy is a small circle, and I'm memorable for my unique combination of acumen, age, and being really annoying. He and I have butted heads before. Once, when he and some others tried to steal some of my books—that's how he knows my traps—and again when I helped stop him and some syndicate goons from trafficking selkies and merfolk. I left him with a warning that he'd better not do this kind of shit again, but Caiman never had much in the way of sense."
"You really get around."
Wyatt shrugged. "When you've got nowhere to be, you've got everywhere to go."
The words were said idly, like a simple statement of fact, but Deacon's heart broke all the same. From the way Wyatt chatted with literally everyone he came across—except Deacon—he liked people, being part of a group. He obviously was thriving being part of Jackie's team and living in Mordred territory. If Deacon hadn't known better, he'd swear Wyatt had grown up in the city, he knew it that well already. So why did it seem like he'd spent so much of his life alone? Where was his family? Didn't he have any childhood friends?
But those weren't his questions to ask, so Deacon squashed them. "Is it going to be a problem that he knows you?"
"I warned him, and he clearly is choosing not to heed that warning," Wyatt said flatly. "If he wants to be stupid enough to test me a third time, let him. He knows what will happen to him. I should have killed him last time, but…" He shrugged irritably and looked away.
Deacon almost asked but decided to let it lie. "Come on, I think we're done here for the night, especially now they know we're on to them."
"Let me get that second sample for your people real quick."
Minutes later, they were walking back across the city, silence once more falling between them.
Pentacle thwacked the back of Deacon's thighs lightly and growled when Deacon cast him a warning look. Deacon glanced at Wyatt, who jerked away when he was caught staring. Why had he been staring? Deacon decided he didn't want to know; the answer probably wasn't a good one. "So how did you and Jackie meet? Don't often see sorcerers and alchemists keeping company the way you two do."
"What way is that?"
"Father and son, more than anything," Deacon said.
Wyatt lit up at that, and Deacon bet his face had gone red again. "Really? Don't tell him that. He's already vexed enough by the whole 'sheriff and deputy' thing. I've never met such a loner, except maybe me."
"You? A loner? You talk to my guards more than I do, and everyone else we cross paths with."
"People like to talk," Wyatt said with a shrug. "Most never get a chance."
Deacon had a lot to say to that, but let it go. "So tell me how you met."
Wyatt looked embarrassed, even ashamed. "I was passing through here one night, met this hot witch who wanted to consult with me on something and then have some fun afterwards." His mouth twisted. "Then his lover showed up, beaten to hell and badly injured."
"Jackie. Had a lover. Who cheated on him. With you." Deacon stared, completely and utterly boggled.
"Yeah. I left, we crossed paths briefly a short time later, then again a few months after that, and have been working together pretty much ever since."
Deacon was still trying to comprehend that anyone would be stupid enough to cheat on a man like Jackie. Stupid enough to treat Wyatt that way. Let alone manage to mistreat both of them at the same time. "I assume this cheating scum is long dead?"
"Roman? No, he's still alive, though barely, after Howler nearly got him."
"That sounds like a story for another day. We both need sleep."
Wyatt scoffed—then looked suddenly excited. "Oh! I can get more coffee."
"What?" But Deacon was left standing on the sidewalk as Wyatt bolted into the coffee shop and came out just a couple of minutes later with another of his vanilla monstrosities. "More caffeine?"
"Not enough to matter," Wyatt said, happily sipping his drink. "I love these things."
"You're like a dragon with a fixation, I swear." A jolt ran down Deacon's spine. That. That was it. That was what bugged him about Wyatt. How the heck had it taken him this long to notice?
"You okay?
"Huh?" Deacon shook himself. "I'm fine. Thoughts jumped. Happens to me a lot. Come on, let's get you home."
"I don't need an escort," Wyatt said, casting him an amused look over the curls of steam coming from his cup.
Deacon snorted. "Yes, you do, or you'll find some new trouble to get into."
That got him a grin that did terrible things to his thoughts and libido. Ya Allah, this kid was going to be the death of him.
No, not a kid. He needed to stop doing that, because it was just a way to hide from the fact he wanted to push Wyatt up against the nearest wall and make him scream. Wanted all that cockiness stripped away, that brattiness focused wholly on him.
The last of the walk to the club was an endless agony. And over much too soon.
Wyatt made a show of batting his eyes. "Thank you for escorting me home. But next date, I'd like to see some actual body parts."
"You're a brat," Deacon said.
Wyatt grinned. "So I've heard." He hesitated, grin slipping, then said, "So you don't hate me?"
"No. There are very few people in this world who ever merited my hate, and most of them are dead. I don't hate you. But you're young, cocky, and reckless. In my world, that's a trifecta for trouble, the kind that gets people killed. Now get some rest before you explode from all that caffeine and sugar."
Wyatt batted his eyes again. "Goodnight, Captain."
Deacon rolled his eyes, and exhaustion washed over him as Wyatt vanished, taking all the energy with him.
Pentacle rumbled and growled, tail playfully thwacking the surrounding snow.
"Shut up," Deacon muttered. "I'm twice his age, and until just now he thought I hated him. Nobody lusts after somebody who hates them." Pentacle chittered. "Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Deacon gave him a playful shove with one
booted foot, the dragon moving only because he felt like it. "Let's go home. I get the feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day."
Thankfully it was only a few more blocks to the skyscraper Mordred called home, and a short elevator ride to the ridiculously huge apartment he'd been allotted as Captain of the Guard. Three bedrooms, a full kitchen, living area, office area, dining area. Two full baths, a balcony, and Deacon had splurged on a fancy hot tub that Pentacle rarely left. He hadn't had half this much in Montréal.
It made the loneliness more acute, but it also gave Pentacle a lot of room, which was something he'd never had before and enjoyed immensely.
Deacon headed straight for his shower, stripping as he hit the bedroom. He set the water to full boil and simply stood under it for several minutes, letting the water and steam clear away all the physical and mental aches of the day.
Unfortunately, washing away all the stress left plenty of room in his mind for illicit thoughts of Wyatt. Deacon groaned in frustration and braced one arm against the shower wall, resting his head against it, focusing on the water pounding against his back and striving to ignore his stupid brain and stupider cock.
But then a long, hard body pressed up against him from behind, one arm wrapping around his waist, the other taking firm hold of his cock. Sharp teeth scored and nibbled at his throat, happy rumbles thrumming through Deacon's body.
Pentacle was one of those dragons that preferred to be in dragon form and shifted very rarely. There were nights he didn't bother to shift even for things like this. When he did shift, it was usually because he wanted to speak, instead of simply letting Deacon pick up on his thoughts. Which meant it was important to him.
"Dragon—" Deacon gasped out as he pulled roughly at Deacon's cock, giving him no mercy whatsoever.
Pentacle growled, then turned him around and gave him a toothy kiss that left his lips sore and throbbing. "Want blood and vanilla."
"Blood and vanilla?" Deacon blinked water from his eyes. "You mean Wyatt? Why blood?"
"Smells like blood. Lots of it. Feral."
Deacon shivered, a chill going down his spine. "Wyatt isn't feral. He's just cocky and therefore dangerous."
"Feral!" Pentacle insisted and kissed him hard again.
Deacon clung tightly, relishing the heat of him, the hot water and steam all around them. He hated being cold, had never gotten used to it despite a lifetime of enduring it. At least here wasn't as miserable as Montréal. "Come on, dragon, give me what I need and then you can yell and whine all you want."
Pentacle obeyed with a happy rumble, prepping him quick and dirty with the lube they kept in the shower before sliding into him with a sure, hard thrust that left Deacon moaning. In human form, Pentacle was a wall, with brown skin and hair that spoke to Latino ancestry, though when Deacon had asked about it all he'd gotten was a typical dragon rumble of disinterest.
By the time Pentacle finished and let him come, the water was cold, and Deacon felt like a wet rag. Pentacle shuffled him into the bedroom, dried him off, and tumbled him into the bed before taking care of the lights and locking up.
When he finally crawled into bed, Deacon was more asleep than awake.
"Feral," Pentacle said, dragging Deacon in to sprawl on and against him, letting him soak up all that lovely heat. "Want here."
That woke Deacon some. "You want Wyatt here? Why?"
"Where should be. You want."
"Yes, I want him. No I am not going to approach him. He's half my age, Pen."
"Pen too."
Deacon groaned. "Shut up. You're a dragon, it's different."
That got him the chittering he deserved. Deacon thwacked him half-heartedly with a pillow. "Dragon, I'm tired. How about a compromise? We'll go see Wyatt after work tomorrow, all right?"
Pentacle grumbled but acquiesced. Deacon had no doubt there would be mischief tomorrow night that would leave him ten kinds of embarrassed.
Allah save him from brats.
*~*~*
Despite himself, Deacon headed into work the next morning already looking forward to seeing Wyatt later that night. He had no idea what reason he'd give for dropping by or what to say after that, but he was stupidly, way overexcited about it. Darn it, why were dragons always right?
He was also super curious why Pentacle insisted on calling Wyatt feral. That wasn't a word used lightly amongst clan. Every now and then, a dragon did go feral and had to be killed. It was the sort of thing that left the whole clan anguished and depressed.
There was no way Wyatt was feral. And yet that alchemist had called him a psychopath.
There was also the way Wyatt loved those ridiculous vanilla coffees; it smacked of a dragon with a fixation. But he was also an exceptional alchemist, which spoke against dragon, unless he was below the percentile at which change was recommended. He needed to get Wyatt tested, but how to do it?
Problem for later, though. If he was right, Wyatt shouldn't be changed anyway. Maybe he'd—
Deacon's thoughts stopped cold as he spied the object left on the stoop of his office building, which had been taken over from the sorry excuse for law enforcement run by the Rust Syndicate. His office was tucked up on the second floor, where he could get some actual work done sometimes.
This early, no one else was in. Deacon had given strict orders that nobody started before nine unless it had been ordered or cleared by him. He didn't want his people turning into the lonely workaholic he'd become.
He also hoped to avoid things like this: anyone else finding a human thigh, wrapped in butcher paper, sitting on the stoop, with a note affixed addressed to him. To judge by the hint of tattoo he could see on the upper part of the thigh, they'd killed Esther.
Anger, pain, and fear rolled through him all at once. Pentacle roared at his side, but at a silent admonishment, settled for angry tail lashing.
Deacon whispered a soft prayer for her—Jewish, because that was what she was—and then gently scooped the leg up and carried it inside. He carried it down to the morgue, left a note for Raquel, and took the note with his name on it up to his office. Setting it on his blotter, he pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial for Heather.
"Dee?"
"There's no easy way to say this, I'm sorry. Someone murdered Esther and left her butchered leg for me to find."
Heather's breath hitched, but she only said, "I'll do a role call and report back."
"Thank you."
Now he just had to explain how this was all his fault because he hadn't stopped those monsters last night.
But the rational part of him knew that wouldn't have made a difference. Even if he had killed them all, that still would have alerted whoever else was involved, and it still would have come to this, or some version of it anyway.
He made a cup of coffee at the little one-cup machine he kept in his office, drank it down, and fixed a second, and then finally faced the note.
It was brief and to the point.
Stay out of it this time.
The words turned Deacon's blood to ice. This time. So these goblins were connected to the ones in Montréal? What were the odds of that?
Better than he liked to think about. They'd done their best to kill all of them, but they'd always worried some of them had gotten away, and a place of violence and tumult like the former Rust Syndicate was the perfect place to set up operations.
So not only was he dealing with goblins, he was dealing with goblins who had a personal grudge. Marvelous.
Deacon sighed and stared at his phone. He'd been planning on reporting to Amr later than morning, but it was going to have to happen sooner. First, though, he needed help. This was what he got for thinking he could have fun once in a while.
Wyatt picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"
"Wyatt, it's Deacon."
"How'd you get my number?"
"Jackie gave it to me should I ever need it for emergencies. Remember that comment you made about next time wanting a body part?"
There was
silence, and then Wyatt said, "I'm sorry. That was a shitty joke to make, given one was bound to turn up eventually."
"A thigh turned up this morning. One of my guards. I have to go report to Amr, but I've put the leg in the morgue and left word you're to have access to it. Locker six."
"I'm on my way. I'll call you the second I have anything useful."
"Thank you." Deacon hung up, tucked the note into his jacket, and headed off.
When he arrived, he was waved up immediately, and Ken was waiting for him in the living room. "We don't usually see you this early." Both of his dragons were sprawled at his feet, though their fanned ears said they were anything but idle. Ken was much the same: deceptively casual to the untrained eye, but a weapon tensed to strike at any moment to the wiser. Deacon didn't know a whole lot about him, but he knew Ken had been kidnapped as a child and forced into the pits alongside one of the dragons at his feet. He'd met Amr while taking down two syndicates and had been Steward of Clan Mordred ever since. Sometime during the dust up with yet another syndicate, he'd bonded with a second dragon. That was rare enough, a phenomenon known as Lancelot's Blessing, but one dragon was male, the other female, which made him even more unusual. On top of all of that, his steward bond with Amr had made him a witch.
He was, in short, no one to mess with, a lesson a lot of people tended to learn too late.
"Wish I was anywhere else, honestly," Deacon replied. "I've come bearing bad news—really bad news."
Amr came from the back rooms then, a near-spitting image of his ancestor, the eponymous Medraut who'd given Clan Mordred their name. At his side was Cameron, the Holy Pendragon who'd chosen Amr as his knight and with that simple decision had given dragons back to Clan Mordred. "What's wrong?"
As concisely as he could, without sacrificing information, Deacon reported everything, from Heather showing up in his office to the grisly package that morning and the alarming note that had accompanied it.
When he was done, Amr looked grief-stricken and Ken looked ready to start killing people.
"I will speak with Esther's family. It's a pity you weren't able to kill or capture them, but I think you made the right call," Amr said.