Watcher Redeemed
Page 26
“I get that, but give yourself a break. You can't expect—”
“No offence, Colt, but fuck the pep talk.”
“Danel—”
“It doesn’t matter how well I can shoot or swing with the hand I’ve got left, Zander will never put me back on rotation. I’m done.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do. And I don’t blame the guy. Nobody wants a wingman with a handicap. They’ll say it doesn't matter, but the doubt will be there. And hesitation and doubt in the field gets men killed. Z knows that as well as I do.”
Heavy exhale on the other end of the phone. “Look, give me another week at the range and we’ll see where we are. I swear you’re almost—”
“Don’t sweat it. It is what it is. I’m sure Zander can use me for intel or in-house tactical or some shit.”
“D, come on—”
“Fuck it, I’m finishing my bagel and coffee and then going home to bed. If I’m still wound when I get there, I’ll light a candle and phone a friend to come work off my stress. That’s all I want to think about for tonight.”
“Fair enough. But don’t throw in the towel yet, Persian. We’ve still got time.”
“Yeah, I’ve got nothing but time. I’m staring down an immortal life of nothing but empty, useless nights.”
While that little ray of merry-fucking-sunshine hung in the air, the neon ‘open’ light in the front window died off and the ‘closed’ began to glow. Perfect. “Look, this place is closing up, so I gotta beat feet. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Good deal. You do that.”
Danel slipped his phone back onto his pocket and stuffed his garbage into the nearest bin. After grabbing his coffee, he and made his way back to the door.
He brushed past homeless guy, still lingering on the front stoop, and wondered what back alley the guy would sack out in tonight. Not that he cared, but he was an expert in all things that went bump in the night and alleys could be a dangerous place. Daemons of all sorts roamed in the wee hours: Serpentine demons. Spirits. Shades. Djinn.
He discretely eyed the guy and gave him a good once over. Underneath the ratty army jacket, knit cap and the baggie-ass pants he seemed to be sporting a pretty strong frame. He could probably take care of himself. Good. One less sheep in the flock to worry about.
Danel tipped the last of his coffee down his throat and tossed his cup in the garbage outside the coffee shop. After turning up the collar of his leather slicker he patted his pockets and felt the small comfort that an arsenal of weapons could offer. He may not be fighting these days, but habits formed over millennia weren't broken in a few months.
With a curse, he disengaged from thoughts of his warrior life and decided to just bag the evening and face the music. Slipping around the side of the building he scanned the scene, his gaze bouncing off dumpsters, grime and a dead end alley.
He began to dematerialize.
The creak of a steel door brought a female smack into the mix. He dropped the transport and inhaled another lungful of stale and dingy. Damn, two seconds later and his barista fan-girl would've gotten an eyeful of him dissolving into nothing but the thin night air. What the hell was he doing?
He was a wreck. A mangled jumble of derailed locomotive crashing down an embankment kind of wreck.
While she headed toward the dumpster to toss the Hefty bag she carried, he took his leave. On foot. Head down, shoulders rolled, he pulled a quick 180 and shot off the way he’d come. Hopefully, he’d vacated, before she noticed him lurking in the alley like some kind of criminal or better yet . . . a pervert.
His Otherworld hearing picked up the soft rhythm of footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to look back to know who it was, he’d heard the rhythm of her gait almost every night for the past year. Great. He quickened his pace and took the next right. Yep, still there, back a ways, but still coming. After taking the next side-street he jogged ahead and ducked into the shadows of an apartment alcove. Why did he care?
He held his breath and pressed back into the shadows as his human stalker passed him unaware. He held his position and watched her go by. Spikey blonde hair, five-foot-two despite the chunky wedge shoes that were a broken ankle waiting to happen. Nice ass though. And she looked round in all the places a woman should be round.
He was about to step out and head on home when a second set of footsteps moved past. Army jacket, baggie pants . . . homeless guy was on the move and seemed mighty interested in the woman.
Danel’s Otherworld Spidey-senses tingled at the back of his neck and he stepped out to follow. He might be benched but he was still a fucking protector of the innocent.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JL Madore is a romance novelist of many genres: fantasy, paranormal, timeslip historical, and contemporary. She loves to twist Alpha heroes and kick-ass heroines into chaotic, hilarious, magical situations and make them really work for their Happily Ever After.
JL lives outside Toronto, Canada with her soulmate of over thirty years and a menagerie of family, friends and animals.
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