Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  Here? Sweet Jayus.

  “Stannis, you’ve been absolutely lovely and I can’t wait until our next adventure, but I have to go home.”

  “No. You stay night here.”

  “Not an option. I live with four police officers.” I held up four fingers. “Four. Not a good idea.”

  Stannis scowled. “But your clothes. I buy you new dress tomorrow. Repair this one.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Please don’t. It was an ugly dress, anyway.”

  “Yes.” His eyes danced. “Very ugly. Okey, I call driver to take you home.”

  I couldn’t bear the thought of Raw Chicken the chauffeur escorting me home alone. A nervous giggle sprang from my lips. “Please, can you come, too?”

  He looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

  God, could I be any more juvenile? I pressed my hands to my cheeks.

  “You are frightened?” His eyes went flat, face grave.

  “Too tired, I think.” But I still don’t want to be in the car alone with that guy. “Why does your driver dislike me so?”

  “He was discourteous?”

  “Yes. Er . . . no. Not horribly, but—”

  Stannis spun sharply on his heel and went to the house phone. He tapped in a number and said something sharp and unpleasant in Serbian. He hung up the phone, came back, and knelt in front of me. “There is much you do not know about me, mali anđeo. My angel.” He took my hands in his. “But we are the simpatico, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the village where I grow up, there is much terror. Much death.”

  I nodded.

  “One learns one must burn a candle for the devil now and again.”

  Gee, that doesn’t sound ominous at all.

  He pulled me to my feet. “Come, I show you.”

  Oookay. We walked down a hallway. Stannis swung open a pair of white enameled French doors. Inside was a large office with a charcoal area rug so plush it was almost obscene. The walls were wood and stained a misty pewter. A black leather seating area surrounded a granite fireplace. At one end, a desk fashioned from raw steel held a large clear glass jar half full of ivory pieces.

  At the opposite corner of the room, a large dark glass aquarium sat atop a granite pillar. I moved toward it, but Stannis caught my wrist and walked me over to his desk and pulled out his chair for me. “You sit.”

  I sat.

  Oh God, please don’t tell me anything horrible. I don’t have the chops left for it.

  There was a knock at the door. I looked up to see the chauffeur in the doorway, shifting slightly to and fro.

  Stannis stood behind me, hands on either side of my shoulders. “Approach.”

  The driver came to the desk. “Sir.”

  “Show her,” Stannis said pleasantly.

  The driver’s fingers began to tremble as he removed his leather driving glove. He set his left hand on the desk. A pulpy raw scar where the little finger had been suggested it had only recently gone missing.

  Stannis put his cheek next to mine. “I think he forgets. He represents me.”

  Raw Chicken’s eye twitched. “No. Sir.”

  “Let us see, shall we come?”

  I followed Stannis and we crossed en masse to the opposite end of the office to the darkened aquarium. Stannis pressed a switch on the pillar and the smoke-tinted glass lit up to reveal . . . beetles on a piece of dried fruit?

  “Staphylinidae. Rove beetles. Difficult to keep alive,” Stannis said to me. He turned to the driver. “Look closely,” he urged. “They haven’t finished with your offering.”

  Eyes squeezed shut, the driver lowered his face to the glass, opened them, and shuddered.

  I looked again. The beetles weren’t on a piece of old banana.

  They were on a human finger.

  The driver’s finger.

  I fought the urge to back away. “You understand, yes?” Stannis reached over and tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Is okey.”

  We went back to the desk, Stannis pulled out the chair for me. He opened the lower desk drawer and removed a battered wooden box scarred with deep cuts.

  He set it on the desk with a thud, took an old iron key from his pocket, and set it in front of me. The dark grooves cut into the wood box ran perpendicular to the edges. Too workmanlike and uneven for intentional design.

  A small whistle of panic escaped Raw Chicken.

  “This wo—girlfriend of mine,” Stannis said softly, “she thinks you do not like her.”

  The chauffeur’s fingers plucked at the hem of his suit coat.

  Stannis laid his hand atop the box. “It is said Pandora loosed all evils upon the world but trapped hope in the box for the benefit of men.” He nodded at me.

  I picked up the key, fit it in the well-oiled lock, and twisted.

  “But you, Maisie, I think, know this to be wrong.” Stannis lifted the lid and took out a strange-shaped iron blade with a battered walnut handle. Vicious and hoary, a sort of cleaver with two cutting edges. “For no evil is as cruel as hope.”

  Stannis closed the box and slid it in front of his driver. “Choose.”

  The driver raised his left hand and laid his ring finger on top of the box.

  Oh Jaysus.

  I am too tired for this shite.

  The driver tapped the gold band on his finger. “Cannot take off.”

  Stannis cocked his head cavalierly and raised the blade. “Will hurt more.”

  “Wait!” My voice went croaky. “Stannis, please. Don’t do this.”

  He frowned at me. “Why not?”

  “He will respect me for my forgiveness.”

  Stannis turned to the driver. “Is this so?”

  The driver nodded and bowed, scraping toward me.

  “As you wish.” Stannis raised his left palm. “I will pay the blood debt.” Without a second thought he sliced his hand with the cleaver and winked at me.

  He wiped the blade off on the driver’s sports coat and replaced the cleaver. A rivulet of red trickled down his wrist.

  I glanced wildly around me for a cloth and almost stood up. Almost. Instead, I barked, “Get him a towel.”

  The driver fled the room.

  “You are right.” Stannis nodded in approval. “Much respect now.”

  I slumped in the chair and swiped the thin layer of chilled perspiration from my forehead, wanting a drink but not wanting to stay a second longer. My eyes fell on the heavy glass jar half-filled with ivory pieces at the corner of his desk.

  I leaned in.

  It can’t be. It just can’t.

  He put his uninjured hand on the jar and gently, reverently, moved it in front of me.

  Aww, for chrissakes.

  The ivory pieces were finger bones.

  “My legacy,” Stannis said.

  Chapter 21

  I slept the sleep of the comatose in my own bed in my own room at home until I turned on my side and woke myself up groaning. The cut hurt like a jellyfish sting on an open blister.

  Stupid Jeff Mant.

  Stupid stupid me.

  I sat up and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands.

  Stannis.

  The fingers. Sweet Jaysus, the fingers.

  My ears filled with pressure.

  Hank.

  Calling him was gonna make a trip to hell seem like Disneyland. Might as well eat breakfast before tying a knot in Lucifer’s tail. I disappeared into my closet, pulled on a v-neck Blackhawks tee and some yoga pants, and caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror.

  Where the heck is my head?

  Stannis’s antiseptic monkey-blood dye made me look like I’d had open-heart surgery. A condition only slightly more acceptable at the McGrane family breakfast table than a neck full of hickeys.

  Cripes.

  I rummaged in my closet for a tee to cover Mant’s handiwork, then threw on a camouflage Under Armour logo hoodie and went downstairs to get something to eat.

  Thierry was in th
e kitchen. Pulling out all the stops this morning. Steel bowls and whisks and food everywhere. “Bonjour, Maisie. Chocolat in the dining room. Tartine Mistral for you?”

  “Ooh. Yes, please.”

  From the decadent bits of ingredients I recognized on the counters, Mom and Da were not only home for breakfast, but in a damn good mood and ready to shred their self-imposed caloric restrictions this Saturday morning.

  I walked into the dining room and froze at the sight of enormous shoulders straining against a watch-plaid flannel shirt and thick blond hair tied into a low ponytail.

  Ragnar, head bent in serious conversation with my mother over the dining room table.

  Oh shite. With a capital S.

  “Ragnar?”

  “Randolph,” Mom corrected and smiled at me. “Come sit, baby, I’ve hardly seen you.”

  I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I crossed to the sideboard and poured myself a steaming cup of chocolat.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I was to find your Mr. Acrey knocking on the door at six o’clock this morning.” She beamed at the Viking.

  Hank’s Viking.

  Ragnar bared his teeth, letting me know exactly how pissed off he was. “Your mother’s a beautiful and fascinating woman.”

  “Oh, stop.” Mom tagged him playfully on the arm. “With his instincts, interpersonal skills, and practical life experience, he’d make an excellent defense attorney.” She raised a finger at him. “I’m never wrong about potential attorneys.”

  My shoulders sagged. Oh God. “No, she’s not.”

  Thierry entered with a silver tray. He set a plate laden with gingerbread pancakes and poached pears in front of Ragnar, followed by a dinner plate of glazed ham and chicken apple sausages at his elbow.

  He served my mother a minute portion. “As I was saying, Randolph, securing you a spot in Loyola would be a snap,” Mom said, barely able to contain a shimmy of joy. “Maisie already has an open seat.”

  With a wink, Thierry set my favorite breakfast in front of me—half a toasted baguette with goat cheese and roasted peppers—and exited, presumably to go barbeque a sheep for our Nordic visitor.

  Ragnar closed his eyes as he chewed. “This is fuc—er, I mean, fantastic.”

  Mom prattled right on, “And since my daughter has long since outgrown her current employ as a parking enforcement agent, I see no reason why you two pals couldn’t start together in the spring.”

  Any port in a storm. I let her have her moment and took a bite of my breakfast.

  Ragnar put half a sausage in his mouth and winked at me. “Sounds like a goddaaa—rn plan.”

  His chest must be full to bursting holding in unsaid swear words.

  Da walked into the dining room. “Good morning, everyone.” He made the rounds, kissed my mother, me, and put out a hand to the Viking. “Conn McGrane.”

  “Randolph Acrey,” he said as they shook.

  “Quite a car out there.” Da jerked his head toward the window before sitting between my mother and me.

  Ragnar’s eyes never left my face as he answered, “A goddamn beaut, ain’t she?”

  “A lot of muscle for city driving,” Da said, sizing him up and, unlike Mom, finding him lacking. “Car like that belongs on the track.”

  “Hell, yeah. Tell me about it.”

  Uh-oh.

  I leaned forward and looked out the window. Instead of Ragnar’s old blue pickup, the black Dodge Hellcat took center stage in the driveway.

  Eff. Me.

  “I suppose a firecracker like Maisie needs the muscle,” Ragnar said around a mouthful of food, his baby blues sending me his telepathic message—Payback’s a bitch.

  Dad’s smile went from cool to chilling. “And just what the hell do yeh mean by that, laddie?”

  Ragnar drank half a glass of orange juice in one swallow before answering. “It’s her car.”

  You son of a—

  “Is that true, Maisie?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “It’s Hank’s.”

  “Something wrong with your car?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “Discretion is the better part of valor,” Mom muttered at her breakfast.

  “My sins are my own, Maisie.” His jaw slid forward. “You won’t be riding them to perdition.”

  Hank’s Law Number Three: Don’t let your lizard brain go rogue.

  Too late.

  “Really, Da?” Flames shot up my throat. “Because I’m pretty sure Parking Enforcement is hell on earth and you put me there.”

  “You’re rolling around in the ashes and muck because you choose to.” Da’s eyes went black with anger. “There’s no ring on your finger.”

  Are you fecking kidding me? “So, I marry Hank, I can drive what I want. Do what I want? Is that it?”

  He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “What makes you think I’d let you marry the bloody bastard?”

  “Maisie. Conn. Desist,” Mom said. “You’re making our guest uncomfortable.”

  Da glared at Ragnar. “Who the feck are you, anyway? Ex-service—” He gestured at the pink puckered burn on his neck. “Afghanistan?”

  “Yemen.”

  “And now you’re just another demmed gun on Bannon’s retainer.”

  Ragnar blinked. “No sir,” he lied. “I met Maisie at Joe’s Gym. We play paintball together.”

  “That’s why he’s here, Da. We have a game.” I stood up. “Let’s go, Rags, we don’t want to let the team down.”

  I slid into the passenger seat of the Challenger.

  “Oh Jesus, you fuckin’ deserved that.” Ragnar scowled at me as he folded himself behind the wheel. “And a hell of a lot more.”

  I latched my seat belt. “I’m sorry about last night. Really. It was a gag, that’s all. I’ll pay for any damage.”

  He shook his head. “You’re outta your goddamned pea-brained mind if you think you can fix jacking me up in front of Bannon.”

  “Look. Hank and I—”

  His entire face went ruddy. He gunned the engine, taking care not to leave tread until he hit the street. “I covered for you and your half-naked ass and you stab me in the back.”

  Whoa. “Hey, I never asked you to . . .”

  His lip raised as his voice went high and mocked, “Hey, I’m not an asshole.” He punched on the radio. Classic rock. Led Zeppelin. “Kashmir.”

  “I’m sorry. That was really decent of you.”

  He turned the volume up. I listened until he got close to the freeway. “Where we going?”

  “Bannon’s.”

  “No dice. Hank’s picking me up at my parents’ tomorrow.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Silverthorn Estates. I may as well go make someone happy since everyone I know is ticked off at me. Thanks for ratting me out on the car, by the way.”

  “ ’Least I could do.” We drove on, rock music blaring. “Man, your dad’s a scary sumbitch, I’ll give you that.”

  After a while the red finally left his ears. He shot me a sideways glance. “Alright. I got a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How in fuck are you so goddamn skinny?” He shook his head. “That was the best goddamn breakfast I’ve ever had.”

  Chapter 22

  I swished my card through the reader of the Onyx ward. RN/BOC guard Anita Erickson met me at the door. “Welcome, Maisie.”

  I frowned. “I hit both buttons.”

  “Always on alert. First time you’ve come in unarmed.” She looked me over. “You doin’ okay? You seem kinda . . . wired.”

  “Yeah. I’m great.” And I was up. Crazy up. I made a beeline for the offices. “Kaplan around?”

  “Yeah,” Anita said to my back and something else I couldn’t hear as I swiped through the door into the office.

  A couple of Grims looked up from their desks but most didn’t. The office was in full swing on a Saturday morning. Kaplan’s door was ajar. I knocked and walked in.

  Her da
rk head was almost touching Sawyer’s flaxen one at the conference table.

  Kaplan glanced up in irritation at my entrance. “What is it, McGrane?”

  The aristocratic, debonair Mr. Sawyer, however, rose with a smile, came over, and shook my hand. “Your fieldwork has been outstanding.”

  My shoulders straightened. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Ahem,” Kaplan coughed.

  “I thought you would prefer the debrief from my date with Stannislav Renko as soon as possible, ma’am.”

  Sawyer tipped his foxy face to one side. “I beg your pardon?”

  “So, it actually happened?” Kaplan said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Close the door, Danny,” Sawyer said flatly. “Maisie, please.” He gestured to the table. “Begin at the beginning.”

  I waited until Kaplan had joined us. Her face was pinched and wan. More worried than angry.

  Good enough for her.

  I walked Sawyer through Stannis saving me from the assault followed by my returning the favor at the strip club. I told him about Stannis’s sexual relationship with Coles, our conversation at T.G.I. Friday’s, and his week of extravagant gifts.

  Sawyer got up and went to the sideboard. “Cartier, hmm?” He poured a glass of ice water from a crystal pitcher and brought it to me. “You authorized this ‘date,’ Danny?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Despite the fact that Maisie’s a raw recruit with no field training? Rather rash.”

  “You yourself said she showed initiative beyond her age and experience,” Kaplan said quietly. “Her Academy scores—”

  “High scores don’t measure field competence, do they, Danny?”

  Kaplan’s hand flew to her collarbone. She caught herself and finished by straightening her shirt. “No, sir. They don’t.”

  So that’s what Edward meant. Shot on the job. Kaplan took one in the chest and now she’s behind a desk.

  Sawyer returned to his seat. “Please continue, Maisie.”

  I told him about The Storkling and the gossip and kissing Stannis. And all about Eddie Veteratti.

  Then I told him about Stannis’s offer.

  Walt Sawyer went perfectly still for a long moment.

  The smile he gave Kaplan was brutal. “It would be prudent to bring in Edward at this juncture. Kindly brief him along the way.”