by W. J. May
“Mitch?”
A gun lowered between them, still spiraling rings of smoke.
“You all right, Wardell? I wasn’t sure we’d make it in time.”
...we?
Devon lifted his head farther, only to see no fewer than fifty PC agents and field workers standing in the door of the warehouse—weapons still raised to their shoulders as two shifters quickly cleared the rest of the room. It took a second for the stars to clear, then he followed the direction they were looking to the body of another man lying on the floor.
Pete Lansing...was very much dead.
He may or may not have fired his weapon. If he did the man must have missed, because Devon didn’t have a scratch on him. Unlike his unfortunate captive, who was riddled with the contents of almost six dozen guns. There were a couple of knives just for good measure.
“I don’t understand...” Devon caught his breath as Mitch pulled him upright by the jacket, dusting him off like a doll. “How did you...?” His eyes cleared and he trailed into silence, latching on to the more pertinent question. “...what are you wearing?”
The man might have been head of the Privy Council’s security—a hulking colossus of pure muscle and the world’s most superfluous strength tatù—but that fateful morning he was dressed as though he was headed to a luau. Or perhaps a game of pinochle to be played on a beach.
Mitch flashed a violent shade of red.
“Decker called us—and not a moment too soon.” His eyes made a cursory sweep of the building. “Most of us happened to be in the city, so we drove straight over. Said that he tried calling you as well, but you wouldn’t answer,” he added a bit sternly. “That’s pretty stupid, Devon.”
Devon glanced up in surprise, then lowered his eyes.
It was a strange reprimand, especially given the two people in question, but the hardened enforcer had been unexpectedly protective of the gang ever since their first triumph with Cromfield at the sugar factory. That silent devotion had only grown in the years that followed. And needless to say, the man was owed a bit of latitude when their safety happened to be involved.
“I don’t have my phone,” Devon mumbled, feeling pretty fucking stupid himself. A burst of pain rippled through his head, and he closed his eyes with a moan. “Jules is going to be ticked.”
Mitch knelt down beside him, cupping the back of his head. “That’s an understatement,” he answered gently, checking for signs of a concussion. “You should have heard him on the phone. Look to the right...and the left...”
Devon blinked rapidly, trying to keep pace.
“You still haven’t answered my—”
“I was playing miniature golf.” The man stared at him from about four inches away, one massive hand still circled around his head. “You want to make jokes?”
Devon swallowed involuntarily, then shook his head.
“It’s a pretty standard concussion,” the man concluded, waving forward a medic. “Unless the two of you fought it out before we got here, I’m guessing it was just from that fall.”
“Eyes front, please.”
The medic lifted a tiny light, but Devon had already pulled himself free.
“I should probably get out of here,” he said abruptly, trying to keep his voice calm. At this point, he would give his right arm not to be there when Julian arrived. “Can you drive me?”
“And leave that car in this part of town?” Mitch joked, glancing back towards the street. “It might be better just to face the music, Wardell. He’ll find you sooner or later.”
Let’s make it later.
“The car will be fine,” he panted, staggering dizzily to his feet. “I can take a cab back here later this afternoon—”
“Get out of the bloody way!”
The men heard the psychic before they saw him— violently pushing his way through the crowd. His own car had been abandoned in the middle of the street, door thrown wide open, keys still dangling in the air. Given the look on his face, it was unlikely anyone would touch it.
“Looks like he’s calmed down some.” Mitch grimaced sympathetically, deliberately backing out of range. “Good luck with that.”
Julian was there a moment later.
“What is the matter with you!” he demanded, shoving the medic aside and grabbing the collar of his friend’s jacket. “I called you nine times!”
Devon stifled a sigh, dropping his gaze to the floor.
People always thought Julian was the rational one—with his soft-spoken wisdom, gentle demeanor, and uncanny ability to see the future. Those who knew him better would disagree.
Julian Decker was a great many things, but rational wasn’t always high on the list.
Especially when his friends were concerned.
“Speak, moron! Or did that bullet hit you in the head?”
At this point, the agents wisely scattered. Devon tried his best to comply—a task made more difficult when Julian seized his chin and pulled him off-balance, checking his eyes and vitals.
“I didn’t have my phone,” he answered meekly, wishing very much the psychic would at least wait until they were in the car. “Aria drowned it this morning. Can we not do this here—”
“So you came here without one,” Julian fumed. “You also came here without your partner, who happens to live four houses down the street!” He straightened Devon’s coat, then smacked him for good measure. “This is even worse than Istanbul. At least there, you had a burner! I could text!”
Devon raised a protective hand between them, feeling immensely sorry for himself.
“You texted: cabbage patch disaster,” he countered without much conviction. “I thought you were drunk.” His eyes drifted to the far corner, where two agents were loading the body into a bag. Every so often, their shoes would slip in the beer on the floor. “I should go and check the—”
“Stop talking,” Julian commanded, though he softened ever so slightly. “...it was Lansing?”
He asked only for the benefit of those still listening, and to allow his friend a moment to catch his breath. He already knew the answer. He’d seen Pete Lansing fire that gun on loop for the last twenty minutes as he raced like a lunatic across town.
“Yeah...it was Lansing.”
Devon stared grimly at the procession as the man was loaded into a car. Julian followed his gaze only a moment before asking in a softer voice, “Did he give up the harbor master?”
There was a beat of silence, then Devon’s eyes snapped shut.
The harbor master. The elusive man at the top of the ladder. The entire reason they’d picked up Lansing in the first place. The entire reason Carter was so intent on getting him back.
And I didn’t think to ask that question before pulling a giraffe on the man?
“No, he...he had a gun on me before I could ask.” Devon pounded his head against the metal paneling, sending shrieking echoes up the wall. “Damnit!”
The agents startled, and there was a momentary lull in conversation. The people loading the stretcher glanced at each other before sliding it into the back of a car.
Julian looked at him carefully, but kept his voice deliberately light.
“We’ll grab him in Munich.”
Devon nodded numbly, and the psychic prodded him with a coaxing smile.
“We’ll grab him in Munich, Dev.”
“SO YOU’RE SPEAKING to me...that’s a good sign.”
The two men staggered out into the daylight, arms wrapped round each other for balance despite the fact that one was clearly intent on ignoring the other.
“I’m barely speaking to you,” Julian replied stiffly before pulling them both to a sudden stop. “I’m seriously pissed, Devon. What were you thinking, going in there by yourself?”
It was even worse than anger, the look in those dark eyes.
He was upset. And for good reason.
“You would kill me if I did something like that,” he added softly.
Unable to reconcile the decision himse
lf, Devon went for a half-joke—something to return their equilibrium until he could figure what to do next.
“I might...but you wouldn’t. You’re lenient, Jules. It’s what people love about you.”
The psychic saw the deflection, but he also saw the barely-controlled panic simmering just underneath. In an act that bordered dangerously close on leniency he shelved it for a later time.
“Merciful,” he corrected sharply. “I’m merciful.”
Devon held up his hands. “Whatever gets you through the night.”
The psychic shoved him forward with a grin. “Sounds a hell of a lot better than what you chose. Bank-tellers can be lenient—”
In a flash of speed, Devon grabbed his wrist.
“Is that blood?” he demanded, twisting it to examine the dark smudges on his skin.
Julian glanced down, then shook his head.
“Oil,” he said shortly. “I was in the middle of—”
“Oh—right,” Devon interrupted brightly. “How was your class?”
Three times a month, Julian snuck away from his life in the city for a private art mentorship with one of the greatest virtuosi on the planet. It had become a sacred time.
“It ended rather abruptly, if you must know.” Julian shot him a hard look, remembering the way he’d sprinted straight out of the gallery. Their eyes met for a moment, then he let out a soft sigh. “I shouldn’t even be doing something like that. It’s an indulgence—I’m needed here.”
Devon just shook his head, refusing to engage.
It had been like pulling teeth, trying to get Julian into a studio to begin with. The guy had been the world’s supernatural safety net for so long he’d found it almost physically impossible to let his guard down for any amount of time and take an indulgent three mornings a month for himself.
The first time he’d tried it had been a hack class, run by a hack professor, who’d accused the psychic of plagiarism on his second day. It didn’t matter that he’d seen Julian sit down and sketch the portrait right in front of him, such perfection was impossible. It had to be faked.
Julian abandoned the idea that very day.
Devon wasn’t willing to give up so easily.
The next day, he snuck into the psychic’s house and rifled through the back of his closet, flipping through all those half-finished canvases he wasn’t ready to let anyone see. He took a few that he loved, a few he wasn’t sure about, then drove across town to the Hayward Gallery where Julian’s childhood idol had just accepted a residency.
With the charming duplicity of a man who told lies for a living, he walked straight through the service entrance under the guise of a delivery man. Asking around for the correct man until he was pointed towards a small loft, where an elderly man was perched upon a paint-splattered stool.
His fingers were templed beneath his chin and he was staring with strange intensity at a blank sheet of paper before him. Such strange intensity, Devon half-expected it to move.
“You’re not delivering canvases,” he murmured without breaking his gaze.
Devon stood up a little straighter, nervously gripping the paintings.
“Uh...no. Not exactly.” He shifted his weight, suddenly wondering if the entire venture had been a catastrophic idea. “Well...sort of.”
The man sighed, as if this wasn’t the first of these attempts he’d been forced to endure.
“Let’s see it, then.”
With a quick breath, Devon stood the canvases on the floor and stepped back as the man began to look through them—not a shred of emotion penetrating the deep grooves in his face.
“You did these...?”
Devon shook his head.
“My friend.”
The man flipped past the first few, all the ones he’d thought were so great, then lingered on a random watercolor he’d never seen before. In the blink of an eye, his expression transformed.
“...this is exquisite.”
Julian was granted an apprenticeship the next morning.
Not that he knew it at the time.
“Where are we going again?”
Devon bit his lip to keep from smiling as he turned the car on to a quiet street. The world’s most powerful psychic, but he was easier to manipulate than the kids.
“I told you,” he replied, “I need your help moving some boxes.”
“Oh. Cool.”
When they pulled into the alley, he was still playing games on his phone.
It wasn’t until they’d walked inside and he caught the scent of oils that he lifted his head abruptly—looking around in surprise. Over the last few years he’d been to the Hayward more times than he could count, but he’d never come in through the back entrance. He was still looking around in confusion, when his eyes fixed on a distant figure and he stopped dead in his tracks.
“That’s...” He trailed off in astonishment, then grabbed Devon’s arm so fiercely people chuckled all the way across the room. “Devon, that’s Lorenzo Bianchi.”
The man glanced up from his desk, then headed over with a smile.
“Is this the artist?” he asked graciously. “You must be Julian.”
The psychic looked like he was going to pass out.
“It’s...it’s an honor to meet you,” he stammered.
The man’s eyes twinkled as they swept over him. “Your friend has been showing me your work.”
Julian glanced over his shoulder, only to see his own paintings on the desk. He glanced at Devon in shock before turning back to the painter almost fearfully.
“I...I didn’t know he was doing that,” he said apologetically, angled as if to run. “I’d never want to waste your time—”
“They’re absolutely remarkable.” The man regarded him a second longer, then cocked his head towards the loft. “Care to sit with me for a spell...?”
Julian had raced out of the studio two hours later, like a kid on a sugar high. When Devon had stepped out of the car to greet him, he’d actually jumped into his arms.
And now he wants to quit.
“I didn’t tell you I was coming, Jules.”
“It doesn’t matter,” the psychic replied, flipping off an angry driver who was yelling at him for parking in the middle of the street. “I wasn’t watching. I should have seen—”
“But you did see,” Devon argued, glancing apologetically at the driver. “You called in the cavalry—saved my life.”
“Barely,” Julian clarified, sliding into the car. “They barely got there in time.”
Devon climbed in with a grin—one that probably had a lot more to do with his concussion and near brush with death than he was willing to see at the time.
“So, what? You’re just going to quit?” he teased, trying to coax a smile. “What would your beloved teacher have to say about that?”
“Master,” Julian corrected him. “Lorenzo is a master.”
There was a chance the guy was under a bit of a spell.
“I’m sorry,” Devon apologized solemnly. “Your master.” He paused a few seconds, playing it back in his mind. “Doesn’t that ever strike you as strange to say?”
The psychic shot him a quick look.
“Exactly how hard did you hit your head?”
The engine revved, but the car didn’t move. Julian twisted around to face him instead, staring straight into his eyes with an echo of that unnatural intensity.
“Are you okay?”
Strange how those three little words could swell to encompass so much more. There was no avoiding them. And sitting so close, in the middle of traffic, there was no way to avoid Julian’s gaze.
Devon didn’t even try. He just bowed his head with a quiet breath.
“What am I going to do?”
The psychic thought about it a moment, then pulled the car into gear.
“You’re going to go home, take a shower, and get some sleep.” He eased into traffic, cutting off the man who’d cursed him. “I’ll swing by later tonight and check on you.”
Devon leaned his head against the window with a sigh.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Dev—”
“I’m serious, Jules. You’ve done more than enough.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Devon...shut up.”
THE KIDS WERE ALREADY finished with dinner by the time Devon made it home that day. He thanked Luke, tucked the baby into bed, then emptied his pockets as Aria finished in the bath.
Another endlessly long day. But he was still breathing.
That’s something to be thankful for, I guess.
“Oh—you found Sophie!” Aria exclaimed, peeking around the door. “The baby was looking for that all day. Uncle Luke finally drove out and bought him another one.”
Devon stared at her in surprise, then turned back to the giraffe lying on the counter. There was still a hole in it from his son’s vicious chewing. One of the feet had a smear of blood.
He picked it up swiftly and tossed it into the trash.
“Doesn’t need this one, then.”
She flashed a smile, then bounded up the stairs—braids of damp hair whipping in the air behind her. He followed at a slower pace, turning off the lights as he went.
She was just climbing into bed when he got there, pulling the blankets up to her chin.
“What’s this?” he asked curiously, taking her by the arm.
There was a scribble of something in the crook of her elbow. Magic marker by the looks of it. Though it had blurred slightly despite her best attempts to keep it out of the shower.
“It’s a fox,” she said simply, angling it towards him. “Just like yours.”
He parted his lips, but couldn’t think of anything to say.
It wasn’t the first time the kids had done such a thing, but it always came at moments that caught their parents off guard. Jason had made a habit of drawing Gabriel’s, even though he was bound to get a different set of ink when he turned sixteen. Benji had taken a more literal approach by carrying around a twisted metal hanger, hoping to attract lightning.
Devon stared another moment, then forced a smile. “You didn’t want to draw Mom’s?”
Aria shrugged. “Too hard to reach.”
He chuckled softly, tucking in the blankets.