"Long way to deliver a message. Would you no' have a pint with us then? Glen." He reached out with a long leg, put the toe of his scuffed boot through the leg brace of an unoccupied chair, pulled it closer to the snug, and waved toward it in a gesture of invitation. "We're no' much on formalities. Call me Torn."
Glen nodded then looked at the others. Torn pointed at the guy with the sleeves and said, "This is Gunnar. That's Raif." He raised his chin in the direction of 'black knight'. "The fella with the questionable personality is Bob."
"Gunnar. Raif, Torn, And Bob. No way."
Finngarick's eyes twinkled with that special sparkle that had elf written all over it. "Aye. Make no mistake. The bugger’s name is Bob."
Glen shook his head. "Let's rename him."
Finngarick looked at Bob and then back at Glen. "What we have here, gentlemen, is a cool, gloomy Irish day with no place to go and no' a thin' to do other than have another pint. So I say we should try playin’ Glen’s game. What would you be callin’ the man if ‘twas up to you, young emissary?" Glen shrugged. "Come now. No ideas?"
"Well, yeah, I sort of named him in my head on the walk across the bar."
"Pub," Torn corrected.
"Yes. Pub. Sorry."
Bob raised both brows. "I, for one, cannot wait to hear what you named me in your head on your walk across the... pub."
Glen looked at him with speculation trying to decide whether or not to tell the truth. "Glyphs."
While Bob studied Glen, his three teammates studied Bob in turn, like they were trying it on for size. Bob lowered his eyebrows and rolled his big shoulders in approval.
Finally Torn nodded as if to say he'd reached a conclusion. "Right you are. Now that you point it out, ‘tis plain as day he's no' a Bob. Glyphs suits him fine. Congratulations. You just nicknamed a knight. No’ an easy thin’ to do. Had he no’ liked it, well, shall we say ‘tis good he did."
Torn Finngarick called for a Guinness Extra Stout to be served to Glen, who wasn't used to alcohol at all and certainly wasn't ready for Irish black beer. He took a manly mouthful, thinking he had arrived, and promptly spewed it all over Torn in a spectacular demonstration of human fountain power. The other three members of Z Team laughed so hard they had to wipe tears.
"… almost as funny as the night that Chokarzi stripper puked half a gallon of half-digested Cuervo in your face. In the middle of a lap dance."
Glen borrowed a wet bar towel and offered it to Finngarick with a blush. "I'd offer to clean you up, but your file says you’re heterosexual."
Torn took the towel without a word, but with a glint of amusement in his eyes. When he was as clean as was possible without a shower and fresh clothes, he handed the towel to Glen. "Go get yourself somethin' else. Drinks are on me. Milk maybe?" he teased.
When Glen returned with a mug of root beer, no one asked him what was in the glass. Torn simply motioned to the chair. “So. They record sexual preference in our files, do they?”
Glen sat, but didn’t answer that question. "You're needed at Jefferson Unit. You're to accompany me to Fort Dixon after the funeral. Your things are being gathered and moved as we speak."
As Glen looked from one to another, he saw no discernible reaction. They were a cool bunch. He'd give them that.
Glyphs shrugged, saying, "New York's no worse than any other place. Maybe better than some."
Finngarick looked at Glen like he was a lab specimen on a microscopic slide. "Would you be happenin' to know why we're needed so urgently?"
Glen thought about it for a minute and decided there was no reason to withhold the truth. "Yes."
A ghost of a smile seemed to cross Finngarick's handsome elven face. "And will you be sharin' with us then?"
"Sorry. No."
Torn glanced at his teammates as if the four could communicate telepathically. "See. The thin' is, we're accustomed to hearin' The Order needs to sweep us further under the rug. No' brin' us into the light. We would no' be the least surprised if you came to say we're bein' transferred to Antarctica. But this? Naturally we're curious, you understand."
"Of course I understand. But I'm not at liberty to say."
Torn nodded thoughtfully. "Well, then. Might you be at liberty to say why you, in particular, were sent to escort us?"
It took Glen less than a second to process whether there could be ramifications to divulging that information. "The Jefferson Unit sovereign is retiring. I'm being given a try-out for his job. He sent me to get you." Z Team stared at Glen as if they were waiting for the punch line. Finally, he said, "No. Really."
Gunnar cleared his throat. "So. You're saying that, at some point, we could be calling you boss?"
Glen responded with a shit-eating grin so big, it begged for retaliation. Gunnar swept his gaze around the snug before it settled on Glen with a disturbing mix of challenge, mischief and amusement.
Torn leaned forward. "Seems we have limited time for the application of a right proper hazin' then, Glen."
Four sets of eyes darted to the movement in Glen's throat when he swallowed.
CHAPTER 1
"'Tis a good thin’ that Stormy and I put the bad in Bad Company, else the two of us might be intimidated by unhappy mates standin' o’er us with mean faces and hands on delectably curvy hips."
"I concur," added Storm.
"You can concur until the cows come home, Sir Storm, but you are still NOT playing in the Jefferson Unit Annual Rugby Match." Litha's voice was loud enough to make the babies get quiet and listen.
"Yeah. What she said." Elora couldn't really see what more could be added.
"We're playin'."
"We are," Storm confirmed.
"You. Are. Retired!" Elora countered.
"Retired is no' dead."
"And,” said Storm, “I'd like to add that we retired early. Lots of active duty hunters are older than we are and they'll be playing. There's never been a match that didn't have B Team represented and there's not going to be one this year either."
Elora huffed. "Since they retired B Team as an honor to you..."
"And you," Storm added.
"Thank you for the thought, but not really. And I don't think any of you would enjoy having me play. Stop trying to distract me. I'm in the middle of asking if you plan to still be repping for B Team when you're ninety."
The husbands looked at each other. They both sat on the sofa in Ram's and Elora's Jefferson Unit apartment with their arms crossed, looking like they had dug in to be stubborn.
"She might have a point," Storm said to Ram.
"We're no' givin' any points nor any ground. With them 'tis always a slippery slope slidin' toward capitulation."
Storm looked at Elora. "We're not ninety now. We'll torch that bridge when we come to it. We're not even nearing thirty. And we're playing."
"Aye. We are."
Ram and Storm uncrossed their arms long enough to give each other a fist bump.
"Look," Elora began, "you're both young, strong, still in your prime and tough as they come."
"We'll no' be fallin' for the flattery approach."
"I'm just saying that you're all that, but you’re also husbands and fathers with bones that can be broken and organs that can be ruptured." Elora deliberately omitted the part about how she hated overhearing female spectators objectifying her husband. She already knew that he was the stuff of nocturnal fantasy and didn't need to have that driven home by listening to women talk about imagining him when they were with somebody else. Ugh!
The men were silent and resolute. Resolutely silent.
When it was clear they were not being moved from their position, at all, Litha whispered something in Elora's ear and they withdrew to the bedroom, closing the door behind them.
"What do you think they're doin' in there?"
"I think they are saying that they will have better luck with a divide-and-conquer strategy."
"Aye. 'Tis my thought as well."
"Pact?"
"My
man."
"Lust to dust."
"Sperm to worm."
"Womb to tomb."
Elora whispered to Litha. "Quiet. Ram's ears are amazing."
"Then let's duck out for a coffee. Or cocoa," she corrected.
When Elora nodded, Litha closed her fingers around her fellow conspirator's wrist and they popped into the lounge downstairs. The trip wasn't far enough to disturb equilibrium. It was no worse than a fast elevator drop.
"It won't hurt them to watch the babies for a little while."
Elora chuckled. "Neat trick."
They picked out two of the comfiest chairs, the ones that made sitting feel like getting a hug, and sat down facing each other.
"Hmmm. Well, I'm thinking that we're not going to get anywhere as long as they're together. They're feeding off of each other and ratcheting up the resolve. We need to interrupt that feed."
"Brilliant. Let us have yummy drinks and then go to our separate bedrooms to see if we can't get their arms uncrossed."
Litha smiled knowingly and initiated a soft five.
"Is it occurrin’ to you that they're bein' too quiet?"
"It's your bedroom. You go check."
Ram opened the door and said. "Great Paddy loves a fuck. They're gone."
"What?" Storm got up.
"Gone. G.O.N.E. As in your wife always brin's an unknown factor to the mix. Great Paddy, I'm glad we were never assigned to hunt somethin’ like her." Ram ran a hand through his hair and looked at Storm. "So. Guess who's babysittin'?"
Since moving back to Jefferson Unit, Elora had settled into a comfortable routine that included the luxury of a balanced life - equal parts family, social and work. In her case, work meant passing on the rigors of her clan's semi-secret martial arts, acquired from her training as one of the king's potential bodyguards when she was growing up in Stagsnare dimension. She had always found it gratifying to work with the active duty knights, knowing that some little change in posture or delivery might save a life.
In fact, teaching had originally been her suggestion. But since returning to Jefferson Unit, she found that she liked working with the trainees even more.
When she looked at those kids, she couldn't help thinking about the fact that each of them was some woman's baby. Understanding what that meant ratcheted her desire to teach them everything she could to keep them safe. She came to think of it as a sacred duty. And every day she was glad that Helm was a first born and not a second son. Of course she knew that exceptions had been made to that rule, but they were relatively rare. Her son would not be one of those exceptions.
She worked the boys hard in hand-to-hand and also taught an elective on weaponry, modern and ancient, for those who were interested. Some of them used it as an excuse to spend more time in the company of the famous knight who was centerfold gorgeous. And fun. But regardless of motivation, the result was a better trained class of future knights.
Elora made no secret of the fact that she thought "her" boys were going to be so much better than the active duty knights because she had gotten them young. When Storm was available, she used her influence to persuade him to stop by her extra-curriculum class and give firearms instruction.
The Lady Laiken made people feel golden in a way that was natural to her personality. She bragged to Storm about what fine hunters the kids were going to be and boasted to the trainees that nobody anywhere was better with firearms than Sir Storm.
At the end of class one cold winter day, the boys followed Sir Storm and Lady Laiken to the Hub level. Storm was in the middle of saying goodbye by postulating his thoughts on the importance of discipline when the normally noisy Hub suddenly became all but silent. Storm, Elora, and their students looked up to see Glen coming toward them, trailed by four ruffians who could not possibly pass for Black Swan knights.
Without taking his eyes away from Z Team, Storm finished his thought. "If you don't believe what I'm saying about self-discipline, just take a look at the alternative."
Elora's eyes roamed over Z Team and they responded with conspicuous ogling. Glen headed straight to Storm with a big grin on his face.
"Signed, sealed, and delivered, sir."
Glen glanced behind him like he was making sure his charges were still following. Storm greeted his protégé with a warm smile and a handshake just before turning an icy stare on the misfits. "I thought I'd take them straight to the Sovereign and report."
Storm nodded. "That would be standard procedure. By all means, proceed." He hit the down button to call an elevator car and stepped out of the way. Noticing that the boys were still standing in the same place practically gaping at Zed Company, Storm turned to Elora. "Class is dismissed, isn't it?"
Pulling her attention away from the human spectacle Glen had dragged in, she addressed the little cluster of boys. “The big guy's right. See you next time. If you put in extra practice, don’t forget to log it. I want to know."
The kids started away slowly, making it pretty clear that the arrival of the exiled knights was definitely more interesting than anything else they might have planned for free time.
Storm leaned into Elora so that only she could hear and said quietly, "Think I'm going to accompany the circus to Sol's office and make sure he gives my boy the props he has coming." When he drew back, Elora nodded and Storm’s face broke into a boyish smile that was definitely mischievous. "Plus, I need to pick up the proceeds from a little wager."
Glen left Z Team waiting in the hallway outside Sol's office with their duffels. Storm glared at them on his way past. Glyphs shot a what-the-fuck look at Torn who just shrugged and shook his head with a minimum of movement.
Storm knocked once on the closed door and entered without waiting for an invitation, a move that would have earned him a severed head when he’d been active duty under Sol. He shut the door behind him with a quiet snick as Sol looked up and waved him in.
"Just telling Catch here that he performed adequately and can take the rest of the day off."
"Adequately?" Storm turned to Glen. "I think that's the Sovereign's way of saying that there aren't half a dozen men in the world who could have gotten those losers here on time and without incident. You should get a medal."
Sol gave Storm a dirty look. "Just because you're no longer on my payroll doesn't mean you can speak for me. I said what I had to say."
"Okay." Storm raised his brows in judgment.
"Catch. You're dismissed."
"Yes sir. What should I tell the, uh, Z Team waiting in the hallway, sir?"
Sol picked up his phone and pushed a button. "Farnsworth! Send me runners to escort the new arrivals to their quarters." He slammed the phone into its cradle.
Storm whistled softly. "The woman you're engaged to lets you talk to her like that?" As he watched the blood drain from Sol's face on realizing what he'd done, Storm almost laughed out loud. Yeah. The man was in for it alright.
Sol recovered his grumpy pants quick enough and stepped out into the hallway. His greeting was brusque and efficient. If you took away the scowl, it could have been delivered by a robot.
"Welcome to Jefferson Unit. People are on the way to show you to your digs. Get settled in. Briefing tomorrow afternoon." He started back into his office then turned back. "And stay out of trouble till then." He slammed the door.
Glen smiled at the Zs and hunched his shoulders in apology for Sol. "Like he said, welcome to Jefferson Unit. See you around?"
Torn stuck out his hand. "Sure, kid. We'll be seein' you 'round."
The next couple of days were relatively quiet except for a catfight between two nurses of all things. Rumor was that it had something to do with Torn Finngarick, but he wasn't overly talkative on the subject and neither were the two women with nail scratches on their faces that were so deep they were practically gouges.
CHAPTER 2
Halcyon Dimension, Fifteen years earlier.
Angel Wolfram Storm seemed to have been born knowing things, like math for instance. His
mind would grab on to a concept on first presentation and then, while his classmates struggled, he would look around for something to occupy his busy mind. That something usually ended up being disruption.
His parents loved him, but the school faculty misunderstood his gift for disruption. He was smart, bored, and went about doing whatever he pleased while ignoring objections to the contrary. In short, no one in his life up to that point had given him an adequate reason to think that anarchy was not the best policy.
The majority of his time in school was either spent in the hallway outside class or in the waiting room outside the vice principal’s office. His parents agonized over what to do, but never found the answer.
One day he was sent to the V.P.’s office under protest claiming that, for once, he hadn't done anything wrong. Maybe he didn't have a right to feel self-righteous about being wrongly accused, but if they'd been paying attention, they would have realized that he'd never shrunk from taking responsibility for his antics. Yeah. He got in trouble a lot, but he hadn't tried to weasel out and claim innocence.
He sat down in his usual chair to wait for the usual carpet ride thinking about the obvious chasm that exists between stoically silent and, "I didn't do it." When his dad showed up looking even more grim than usual, he knew it was that final hammer. He wasn’t being suspended. He was being expelled.
The V.P. opened his door and leaned out. "Storm. Your father is here to take you home. Clean out your locker. Don't dawdle. Don't talk to the other children. And, do a thorough job because you won't be coming back."
Angel didn’t miss the fact that Mr. Rodgers sounded happy. Well, the feeling was mutual.
His dad waited in the car while he cleaned out his locker. His mind was a blur of possible scenarios about what no school might mean and none of them were good. He stopped long enough to think about missing his friends and realized that he didn't have any friends who were important enough to miss. On the way out he passed the classroom with the ugly ass teacher who had ejected him for the last time. Class was in session, but the door to the hallway stood open.
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