"Not as many as you think. I know something you don't."
"What?"
"You've already had years of practice being a father figure to B Team." Storm frowned a little at that, but Monq just smiled in the annoyingly beatific way of wise men. "Liberty Rose. An excellent choice for a little girl who is certain to be beautiful as her name. You plan to call her Libby?" Monq noticed that Storm had stopped fidgeting and looked more relaxed.
"Rosie," Storm said shaking his head. "After Litha's mother."
"Well, my suggestion is that you spend as much time as you can with your wife. When Rosie enters the picture, your lives will never be the same again."
Storm nodded and stood. "Thank you." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a nickel. "Here you go."
"Just leave it in the jar."
Jefferson Unit was buzzing from top to bottom after announcements were made concerning temporary reassignments, but nothing was more gossip-worthy than the impending arrival of the infamous Z Team, a.k.a. Zed Company.
Sol wanted to be sure that most of the active duty knights had already been transferred ahead of time or trouble was sure to follow. Z boys and trouble were like bees and honey.
Even though they were anathema to people who appreciated some semblance of order, like Sol and Storm, the female personnel were eager to get a firsthand look and find out if they lived up to their reputation.
Ram had always said they weren't that bad. No one spent time wondering why he felt that way. Elora had never met them, but she'd heard enough to be okay with keeping the status quo.
The Order purchased and converted a hotel with a roof pad suitable for Whisters, installed the best security possible outside a no-fly zone, and moved the entire Paris unit and its personnel practically overnight. They outfitted a large, fully staffed med unit and prepared three entire floors to serve as halfway rehabilitation housing in the hope of finding and curing an unknown number of vampire virus victims.
Baka's offices and living quarters were furnished and ready for use when he arrived. On the same floor, lounge rooms were assigned to Jean Etienne and his boys, but they were free to come and go at will and probably wouldn't be around unless they appeared on the posted schedule.
The three teams of knights, who had been stationed in Paris before the new regime, were less than enthusiastic about the idea of working with host vampire. The three of those knights who were also Frenchmen were offended that the host vampire appeared to be French aliens. And spoiled at that.
Heaven had been reassigned to Baka's team. No one could possibly be more useful to vampire hunting than a person who could call them at will by playing a musical instrument. She was ecstatic to join Baka for a Parisian honeymoon, even if his mind was sometimes preoccupied with the search they were undertaking. When she left Edinburgh what she had in mind was romantic dinners, walks along the Seine, and the intense scratching of mutual itches.
There wasn't going to be as much of that as she would have liked, but she understood her new husband's level of commitment and the paramount importance of the work. There was no doubt in her mind that he was the best choice for the job. Who else could present a resume with a bullet point reading, "Double Ex-Vampire"?
The main thing was that there were times when she did have his undivided attention.
Baka spoke flawless French, as he should since he'd had centuries of intermittent practice. He could speak modern conversational French, as well as the provincial, medieval dialect spoken by the teenage immortals.
Heaven had been exposed to a smattering of French, but she lacked both an interest in the subject and an ear for languages. So the effort she made was a constant source of entertainment for Baka. He thoroughly enjoyed teasing her about ridiculous sentence construction and endless pronunciation goofs. She didn't resent the fact that he laughed openly and often at her expense. Her philosophy was that, if anyone in the world deserved a new collection of happy moments, it was her gorgeous husband. When she was privileged to be the source of that happiness, it gave her a natural high that would be worth billions if it could be bottled or reduced to a pill.
The young vampire on Baka's team continued to behave like college kids on Spring Break, but Jean Etienne took the mission very seriously and could corral them into focus for brief periods of time. Hopefully, that was all that would be necessary.
They had already mapped the underground, both modern and the historical unimproved, and had decided the best plan of attack would be to split the available assets into three groups. Each of the Parisian teams would be assigned two additional members. One would get Jean Etienne and the charge he thought least likely to be trusted on his own. One would get Baka and Javier. And the last would be assigned the remaining two vampire even though the prospect made Baka crazy trying to anticipate all the things that could go wrong with that.
Jean Etienne had assured him that he would regale the boys with sufficient lectures to ensure they behaved themselves even when he was out of sight. Baka hoped J.E. had as much respect and authority as he thought he did. Since the host vampire were not compelled to assist for any reason other than their own self-imposed sense of duty and responsibility, The Order was, in that instance, beggar and not chooser. In other words, they would take what they could get and be grateful for whatever it was.
In a decision that Storm thought was particularly sadistic and utterly uncalled for, Sol decided to begin Phase Two of Glen's test by dispatching him to tell Z Team, in person, that they were transferring to Jefferson Unit. Further, he was to escort them back.
The Fates must have been busier than usual because it happened that Z Team was not in Marrakesh. Torn's father had died, expectedly, and the entire team had been given a four day leave to go to Ireland with Torn.
The three other members of the team were Americans who had a history of raising Cain with Torn since they were teenagers. Undoubtedly the dynamic had a hand in shaping the path and personality of each of the four individuals who molded themselves into a group, or team, that could - when necessary - think and act as one.
Torrent Finngarick had escaped his old man and the tiny town of Dunkilly when he was recruited by Black Swan at thirteen. He was one of the rare exceptions to the second son rule. Circumstances had artificially created the environment necessary to instill the seeds of knighthood even though he was an only child. His da had been a widower who couldn't manage his whiskey or his strong-willed boy.
Torrent was dismissed by the community as being Mick Finn's ne'er-do-well kid. He was disliked by his teachers because he made their day harder and longer than it would have been otherwise. Neighbors would have said he was a list of undesirable traits. He was no good. He was a troublemaker. He was smarter than a person should be and, worst of all, he was a terrible influence. The other boys admired him, wanted to be like him, and would jump off a roof if he said they should.
Someone in Dunkilly might have come forward, taken an interest, and tried to channel all that raw talent and energy in the right direction. But no one did. Until Black Swan stepped in.
Anybody could see he had that one special thing that separated Black Swan knights. It was a quality that defied definition, but might best be described as fire. The entire world was a better place because kids like Torrent Finngarick, who found their way to Black Swan, sometimes grew up to be the kind of person who would willingly walk into the unknown, knowing he might not come back. The irony is that the sort of kid who may grow up to save the world often gets kicked to the curb early on.
As it turned out, Torn was hard to handle even for Order personnel who were trained in the care and development of Black Swan knights.
When the boy left the little fishing town, nobody grabbed a kerchief to dry a tear. Not even his father. Truthfully, the arrangement had worked out for the best for both of them. So Mick Finngarick's wake was not a solemn occasion. Not for his son or for anyone else.
Twelve years later, nobody in Dunkilly was surprised to see young Finnga
rick turn up with a nickname like "Torn" and friends who looked like hard-core biker mafia. They were, however, surprised that he arrived on a Whister that landed in a goat pasture. He stepped out with three boyos every bit as large, strange, and colorful as he, strapping duffels over their big shoulders and looking for all the world like they owned it. Dunkilly residents were surprised that Torn had enough money to buy the entire town drinks for three days and not miss any of it.
The proprietor of the pub that faced the harbor was happy to stage the wake there since the event's patron assumed responsibility for the tab. Torn paid some of the old women in the town to dress in black and watch over the body's soul at night so that it wouldn't be snatched away early by spirits. He brought in musicians from Donegal and Derry to give the wake a lively, celebratory atmosphere. He gave the funeral director enough money to get a suit for the body and gave the church an honorarium to bury him, buy a stone marker, and say some words.
Torn knew he didn't owe the fucker all that much for having contributed his sperm and his name, but when the three days were over, he would leave Dunkilly and return to Marrakesh. He would never be back and would never give the deceased another thought because he would know in his heart that he'd done more than he should.
He dragged the rest of Zed Company along with him not because he needed emotional support, but because he wouldn't want them to hear later that he had picked up the tab for a three day Irish Malt bender and hadn't included them. Besides, he knew they could use a change of scenery. Anything can get old after awhile. Even hash and belly dancing.
Planning Glen's travel wasn't much of a challenge for Farnsworth. She wouldn't even consider it a particularly complicated itinerary. Glen was dropped in the same goat pasture where Z Team had been dumped two days before. The idiot pilot, whom Glen had "worked with" on the Lady Laiken's rescue, pointed him toward the harbor as he silently lifted away.
Glen threaded his arms through straps, dropped the pack onto his back, and started toward town. By the time he got to the Land's End Pub his teeth were chattering uncontrollably. He had spent time in Northern Ireland before, but the wind that whipped up the Atlantic coast absorbed ocean moisture and went straight through clothes and skin and flesh, all the way to the bone.
Standing on the sidewalk in front of the pub, he could hear live music playing inside. The memory of standing in front of that door, wanting to simply open and step inside would stay with him forever. So close, but his fingers were too numbed to grasp the door pull. There was no choice but to wait in the biting cold with only the chattering of his teeth for company until someone was either headed in or out.
Finally the door opened and someone stumbled out singing and adjusting his wool cap. Glen wedged his knee into the door before it closed and stepped in. The chill was so thorough that the initial warming sensation stung his hands and face. He stood near the door, shivering and trying to keep his teeth quiet while he looked around.
It was crowded for early afternoon and visibility was compromised by thick smoke hanging in the air. He resisted the impulse to cough. There was an open casket in the middle of the room a few feet away from where the musicians were seated. His eyes rested on the body long enough to have the thought that at least that poor fellow was beyond caring about secondhand smoke.
Those who noticed him stared with open curiosity. Strangers in Dunkilly were as common as unicorns.
He caught the eye of the bartender who simply pointed toward a back corner. Glen couldn't see what the man pointed to, but he nodded and began making his way toward the rear.
He wound through a few layers of standing people who were holding glass mugs and talking loudly to be heard over the music, until he could see a corner snug in the back. It was close to a window so there was enough light to see, even with the smoke, that the bartender had been right in surmising that he was looking for Z Team.
There they were, the farthest thing from inconspicuous. Glen couldn't begin to guess how they had managed to be successful vampire slayers when everything about them drew attention and broadcasted vibes of this-is-your-last-chance-to-run. It was a message that floated around them like a diaphanous cloud of warning.
The four of them fit comfortably in a snug designed for eight. That was partly because of their sheer size and partly because they had a casual way of draping arms and legs so that they took up as much space as possible. It also communicated disdain for established notions of propriety. Glen knew instinctively that even the word "propriety" would make Black Swan's infamous misfits laugh out loud.
One of them was wearing a sleeveless shirt that had once been a denim jacket. His left arm had been transformed into a tattooed sleeve by an intricately inked mural of muted colors. It was odd to see bare biceps when it was brittle-dick cold outside, but Glen supposed that if he'd made that much of an investment in ink he might want to show it off too.
Glen's initial impression of the guy sitting next to Sleeve was that he should have the nickname, Dark, or Black. He wore black jeans, a black metal band shirt that was probably a collectable, and his spiky hair was so blue black it had to have been dyed that color. All that with eyes so pale he could almost get away with going undercover as a vamp. He wasn't wearing eyeliner, but the contrast between his ice-color irises and those thick ebony lashes made his eyes pop in a dramatic way that probably drew interest from a lot of babes. The Black Knight. Glen smiled a little to himself. He enjoyed his own company and his own offbeat sense of humor.
The third wore a plain gray long sleeve tee that covered his upper body, but Glen could see black ink climbing out of the neck of the guy's shirt, stopping just below his pronounced jaw line. Either tribal pattern or angel glyph. Hard to tell with just snake tails in view. He had a serious case of bed head going, probably by design, and one eyebrow that was raised and had been since he'd noticed Glen standing there watching them.
He said something to the others. Then the fourth, the one facing away with one long arm draped over the back of the snug, turned to look at Glen, revealing elfin ears. Those ears were outlined by light brown hair with titian streaks. Same curl as Sir Hawking. Had to be Torrent Finngarick.
They looked exactly the way Glen had expected them to look. Hard. Tough. And like they belonged together. He was thinking, So they're Black Swan knights with a little bit of a nasty reputation. They put their pants on one leg at a time just like me. Right?
It was an inadequate internal pep talk, but he just wasn't feeling it. He decided to go with Plan A, which was taking life straight ahead, one step at a time. Glen had a reputation of his own for being easy going, but he made an exception for passive aggressive nonsense. He didn't like it, didn't like people who habitually avoided the front door, and didn't mind letting his irritation with bullshit bubble over.
Plan A meant walking straight up to them, stating his business, hoping for the best, but being prepared for the worst. That was the thought bouncing around in his mind as he observed their reactions to seeing him approach the table.
When he was standing over them, he looked around the table and said, "I'm Glendennon Catch." Then he zeroed in on Torn. "Sorry for your loss, Sir Finngarick." He said "sir" quietly enough so that only they heard him, but they got the message. It was as good as a secret handshake. "The office sent me with a message from the HR department."
They left him standing there for a minute without saying anything or changing expression. It was a thinly disguised intimidation strategy to get him to reveal nervousness, timidity, or some other weakness that would register as a flaw in their eyes. That sort of thing didn't work on somebody who had inherited the dominant werewolf gene. He could stand there all day without flinching or looking away.
Finally, the big guy with the glyphs crawling up his neck grinned, showing dimples which seemed entirely out of place against the persona he'd so carefully crafted. "So go ahead and deliver your memo, Sweet Cheeks. We're waiting."
The other three chuckled softly without taking their
eyes off of him. Glen laughed openly and good-naturedly, but let the sound trail off ending in a low level growl, incongruent with the smile on his face. The growl wasn't loud enough to draw attention from the wake-goers, but it was definitely heard by Z Team. They all sat up a little straighter and took another look at the kid. He had their interest, but that was worlds away from respect.
Looking at Glyphs, he said, "My briefing didn't mention that any of you are hard of hearing. If you want to call me by a name, it's Glen."
Finngarick's blue eyes twinkled in a way that brought Ram to mind while the other two laughed at Glyphs being put down by a kid who was years away from growing into his big frame.
"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 up to the snug, and made a gesture of invitation. "You'll find we're no' much on formality. Call me Torn."
***
CHAPTER_15
Stalkson Grey walked Luna through the settlement to the livery garage. The people she saw all stared at her on the way past.
"Are all of these people really werewolves?"
He looked down at her and seemed amused. "Yes. I don't suppose you're going to make each and every one prove it. I warn you. Nudity will be involved."
When they reached the garage, he raised the door and pointed to the Range Rover.
"We're taking this one. Get in." She made no move toward the car. "What's the matter?"
"I don't know how."
"You don't know how to what?"
"I don't know how to get into this."
He looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. "You've never been in a car?"
Moonlight: The Big Bad Wolf (Black Swan 4) Page 21