Righteous Eight: An Urban Fantasy Adventure (Words of Power Book 4)

by VK Fox

  “Okaaaay.” Dahl shuffled his feet for a moment before taking the firing line. He paused. “Are you ready to talk about last night?”

  Everest frowned. The tape and gauze on the back of his hand where Blue had removed the IV this morning itched. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  “Everest, you left camp—”

  “I was with Sister Mary. We went for a short walk—”

  “Sister Mary said she wasn’t—”

  “I do not answer to you off duty! How many times must I repeat that I am done discussing this?”

  Dahl dropped his gaze and swallowed hard enough to move his Adam’s apple. After a few heartbeats, he continued in a carefully light tone. “Well, what did you want to talk about?”

  “Boundaries.” Dahl’s eyes flicked to the side before he squared up again. This conversation was going to ruin his aim as a side effect. “Your inclinations when we were testing the barrier were a different side of the coin than I’ve seen before.”

  “When we were testing the barrier?” Dahl shifted the inverted gun to his off hand, working the trigger with his remaining pinkie and nicking the inner ring of the CD. On the second attempt he corrected an imperceptible margin and drilled it. “That’s what you want to discuss?”

  “How many men have you been with?” Everest kept his voice neutral: clear and matter-of-fact.

  “What? Why does this matter? Why do you care?” Dahl winced after the words were out, and he shook his head but didn’t speak again.

  Everest shrugged. “I’m sure you have a wider variety of experience than I do. I’m trying to—”

  “I didn’t keep careful records, alright?” Dahl aimed for the head of a cotton swab ten yards downrange and squeezed the trigger. Everest had to squint for a dozen seconds at the tiny, fluffy target.

  “Did you hit it?”

  “I did.”

  Everest squinted again as he stepped up. “With Sana Baba’s requirements for registering relationships, how did you not keep records?”

  “Because they weren’t relationships. I only made that mistake once.” His voice had a bitter edge. “My misconception about the arrangement, you see, because I was so young and dumb. I registered my first one, and Management fired my boyfriend because he was of a ‘legally problematic age.’ Did you want to hear the names he called me while he was cleaning out his desk?”

  Everest holstered his Glock and turned to face the man he loved. “Would it help for me to listen?”

  Dahl swallowed hard. His eyes were unfocused on the sky. “No. There’s not much else to say. Everything after that until I dated Olive was clandestine hookups, and sometimes the other party got fired anyway. No one made me do anything, but they couldn’t give two shits about me either. I would have been better off telling them to go fuck themselves. I didn’t have that much sense, though.”

  “Not many fifteen-year-olds do.”

  “Or sixteen. Or seventeen. Or maybe even eighteen when I should have known better.” Dahl rubbed his face. “If it doesn’t matter to you, I’ll get over it. That was a long time ago, I hardly think about it anymore. Is this really what you wanted to talk about?”

  “I’m worried you want something I’m not comfortable giving you.” Everest smoothed the fuzzy fibers of his pea coat with a gloved hand. “Something about the way you pinned me face down against the side of the car for six minutes yesterday made me think maybe I should mention it.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to… I don’t even remember-”

  “No, it’s good for us to consider.” Everest knit his brows together and tried to meet Dahl’s eyes. “I know you were out of control, but we haven’t broached this and we should. I don’t enjoy getting bent over. If you’ve had partners in the past or watched porn, you might have certain expectations or even muscle memory that—”

  Dahl was laughing, the kind of loose, belly laugh he saved for inappropriate moments. “Everest Lovecraft. Are you telling me that between you and balls-to-the-wall, bruiser Adam Shelley, you were the one on top?”

  “Oh. What?” Everest dropped his gaze again, his mouth uncomfortably dry. “No. We didn’t fall into those sorts of roles.” Did Dahl really want him to go into details about the physical love he shared with Adam? On most days hearing even the most mundane details of their relationship wounded him. Everest pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.” Everest’s chest hurt, and Olive’s taunts from the Neon echoed from the box where he’d locked them in his mind.

  You were a notch on the bedpost. I figured out really fucking fast how boring you are.

  Another aching wound in the grisly theater of their past. Everest buried it deeper. He couldn’t think about that right now.

  The snow under his feet was crunchy with bullet casings. Should he try to make the shot? Emotion compromised his accuracy and it spoiled his mood. The jangly adrenaline dump that followed nervous gunfire needed to be soothed with a joint, and pretty soon his whole day was off. He was supposed to check in with Blue and assist in golem construction, and Fitz was desperate to spend time with him. They had another meeting today, and he was already exhausted. Sacrificing more concentration wasn’t prudent.

  “Hey, come back to me.” Dahl was pulling him in, arms sliding around his waist. “Why are you worried about this?”

  “I’m worried you’ll feel unfulfilled. I love you, but that doesn’t make me comfortable giving you whatever you want. I understand if that means—”

  “Hey. Stop.” Dahl planted a cold kiss on his cheek. How did someone shorter than he was make him feel completely sheltered? “Do I ever look disappointed in bed?”

  “No.” Everest closed his eyes against the sun, letting Dahl’s body melt the edge off the cold.

  Dahl’s voice was muffled in his shoulder. “I’m not into being on the bottom either. Does that matter?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Perfect.” Dahl straightened and kissed his temple, readjusting his now crooked headphones. “Are we done, or have you found any additional reasons this morning why we should break up?”

  Everest shook his head. At some point his fingers had wandered to the ring around his neck. When Dahl focused on it, he tucked it back inside his coat. The silence stretched out for a few more heartbeats before Dahl bit his lip stud and nodded, stepping back.

  “Are you going to take a shot, Ace, or can I consider this a forfeit?”

  Everest gave him a smug smile and stepped to the firing line.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dahl woke with his face pressed against the table, lying in a puddle of his own drool. The smell of gun oil and apple cider lingered in the air as someone shook his shoulder firmly. Where was he? Sleep had been so deep and absorbing that he had to scramble through his mind for the answer.

  Levering himself to sitting, his cheek stung as it peeled off the wood where his skin adhered with spit and pressure. Dahl’s eyes burned, and he blinked back exhaustion tears for a few seconds before the Grit Room slid into focus. The want to sit there and cry was embarrassingly overwhelming, and he couldn’t command his limbs in a meaningful way. So fucking tired.

  The present slowly ebbed in. Fitz was sitting at his feet, eating popcorn and studying a well-loved copy of The Runaway Bunny. Dahl had brought him in here when he woke so Everest could sleep, because last night the man had passed out from hypothermia in the snow when he’d gotten lost on the way to their block. Sister Mary had found him, following a random hunch she had while reciting evening prayers. Remembering Everest’s freezing body, shallow pulse, and blood flowing from his ears and nose made it hard to breathe. Then instead of acknowledging anything about the stupidly dangerous event he’d wanted to discuss more potential relationship hangups. Fucking amazing.

  Billy Davis was standing over him, wide awake and ready for action. Dahl self-consciously glanced at his own state of dress: flannel pajama pants, and his torso was painted with Everest’s skin-tight, burn-out velvet roses s
hirt. Dahl had wanted to sleep in something of Everest’s, and he hadn’t remembered he’d changed. He groped around for a hoodie or a coat while Fitz climbed onto his lap and messed with his hair, running precious fingers opposite the grain so it would stick out, evening up his bedhead.

  “Sorry to bother you, but there’s someone here.” Billy’s voice was tense, although his mountain-man-level beard cloaked facial expressions.

  “What?” No hoodie. He must have brought a coat over, though. Where was it?

  “Two men. They’re asking to see you.”

  “What?” Dahl’s tongue was thick, and he kept losing the thread of what was happening. “Two men are at Camp Nowhere asking to see me?”

  “Yeah. They’re right outside the door.”

  Dahl’s coat was under the table. Fitz had been using it as a picnic blanket. Oh, disgusting. Dahl shook the popcorn out, but there were little crunchy bits in the seams and the sleeves. He couldn’t bring himself to put it on. “Perimeter security didn’t detect anything?”

  “No.” Billy’s tone was bashful. “They must have arrived a different way.”

  “Fuck.” He placed Fitz on the chair and stepped into the bathroom. Dahl wet his hands, combed clumsy fingers through his ruffled hair, and rubbed his face. Ian’s “Hello, Beautiful” still smiled at him from the corner of the mirror, and Dahl worked to pull himself together before reentering the main room.

  “Billy, give me your shirt and take Fitz out the back door. Wake everyone, starting with Megan and Sister Mary. Have them meet me in here as soon as you can.”

  To his everlasting credit, Billy didn’t hesitate. He stripped off his thick, button-down flannel from his Long-John-clad torso and tossed it over, giving Fitz a friendly grin as he offered the little boy his hand. Fitz looked to Dahl with cautious, mismatched eyes.

  Dahl signed and spoke at the same time. “It’s okay. Billy will take you to Daddy.”

  Fitz didn’t take Billy’s offered hand, but he did put his coat on and trail out the bathroom exit with some encouragement and a few backward glances. As soon as the latch clicked, Dahl clenched his jaw and opened the Grit Room’s front door to the freezing dawn.

  Ice glittered over Camp Nowhere, catching the tangerine sunrise and reflecting it on every surface. On the doorstep were two men: a teenaged boy with short, dark hair who looked like his favorite hobbies were hitting the gym and impressing the ladies and a Latino gentleman who was all salt and pepper and ageless, smooth skin. They were dressed for the weather with Sana Baba standard-issue subzero jackets and insulated boots, gloved hands relaxed by sidearms and heads covered with terminal hats.

  Dahl crushed the urge to switch to Sumerian out of formality. They were on his turf. He could be gracious without habitually licking their boots. “Please, come in.”

  The older man stepped inside, leaving his teen bodyguard to flank the door. A new agent on a protective detail. The gun in his belt was standard issue, and his hand was limp in a way that looked like he wasn’t going for it in a hurry. Either he expected this meeting to go well and was being sloppy, or he was packing something better than firearms. Next to the holster a worn black rabbit foot dangled from his belt.

  Dahl dredged his memory for their faces. The boy was Issa Frost linked to Cú Chulainn. Mordred had been at the linking ceremony, so Dahl had missed it, but he’d indulged in some guilty research and surveillance at Sana Baba in Vegas. The kid was gorgeous and linked to Everest’s ex after all. The older man was utterly unfamiliar, entirely too old to be an agent, and with the wrong bearing for upper command. The combination did not sit well.

  Inside the warm Grit Room, the older man removed his coat with practiced elegance, revealing a suit underneath. Dahl’s focus tracked to his gold tie pin: an intricate, Sumerian style wire-work flower gleaming where it pierced the black silk. Holy shit. Management. They were here.

  “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Dahl.” The gentleman’s voice was higher and more emotive than anticipated, and it put Dahl’s teeth on edge. His saliva had turned to glue and if he spoke his voice was going to crack, so instead he gestured to a seat at the round table. Dahl sat a second later and laid his hands on the tabletop in a way he hoped looked relaxed and open rather than contrived. “We need to talk. Is now a good time?”

  “Now is perfect.” What the fuck was he supposed to say—no, come back in three hours? “Can I offer you instant coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sure you know the reason for this meeting.” Management folded his hands on the table. “Your performance review this quarter was below our minimum requirements. This is the third quarter in a row you’ve fallen short of raising your scores. Consequently, we’ve decided to let you go.”

  “You’re... firing me?” The words fell out and the room took on a heavy quality—air dense and charged. What did that even mean? Where were his people? Dahl tried and failed to swallow.

  Management smiled congenially. “I believe you’re a talented individual, but a poor cultural fit at Sana Baba. At this time we’ve extended all the chances we can give. It’s for the best. Palahniuk?”

  For an eternal second, the weight of that name sank in and Dahl caught a faint twist of something thin and transparent in the air in front of his face. His golem arm shot up beside his head at the same instant the nylon garrote closed, ineffectively snagging against the resin limb. Management fumbled for his gun, but he was considerably slower than a desperate AWOL agent, and Dahl was already flipping the round table so it knocked him full in the chest, sending man and pistol tumbling while he whirled to face an invisible Alma Palahniuk.

  Dahl reached for his holster and found it conspicuously absent. Where the fuck was his gun? He must have left it in the nightstand. The brutal clarity with which Dahl missed Mordred knocked the wind from his lungs. A few months ago he would have uttered magically infused words to make Palahniuk putty in his hands. Now he could only mount a shaky, exhausted, unarmed defense against the agent who buried Sana Baba’s trash and a man who would soon recover his sidearm. He was going to die longing for his possessor. The garrote would have been a kindness after all.

  Billy threw the door open, a swirl of snow behind him, shotgun in one hand and Fitz in the other. “Emergency. Sister Mary says—” As the scene sank in, Billy’s shotgun swung to cover Management on the floor. “Stay where you are and tell your men to back down. We have bigger problems right now than whatever’s going on in here.”

  The older man’s mouth was a thin line, but Dahl didn’t wait. He was around the table, grabbing the loose gun and Management’s coat. He charged to the open door while they still had the advantage of indecision. Nudging Billy out, he slammed it closed, locking the key-operated deadbolt while he spoke.

  “I’ll lock the back door and meet you on the roof. Where’s the kid—agent Frost?” With any luck they wouldn’t find the back door in the bathroom before he could secure it.

  Fitz was clawing his way onto Dahl’s back. Shit, that was not ideal, but arguing cost too many seconds.

  He grabbed the boy and bolted for the side of the building as Billy yelled, “Already on the roof. He took orders from Everest without missing a beat. Do we need to worry about him?”

  “Have Megan watch him.”

  “Will do! Freakhogs coming in fast.”

  “See you in a minute.” Dahl sprinted to the back door and threw the deadbolt. With cracking reverberations, several AR-15s opened up somewhere above the lane and Dahl turned out Billy’s shirt pockets for earplugs, jamming the squishy foam in Fitz’s ears before inserting his own. They cut the noise from consuming to terrifying. Fitz buried his face in Dahl’s neck.

  The roof ladders were located on the opposite side of a fifty-foot-wide lane, and Dahl had taken three strides when a surge of pounding paws, slashing tusks, and thundering flesh erupted from the edge of block B. A freakhog pack was in full stampede, barreling their direction. The well-defended, secure roof full of armed allies didn’t matter: Dahl wa
sn’t going to make it. His choices were inside the Grit Room with Management and agent Palahniuk, or on his own with a four-year-old in the open. Fitz went rigid with fear and started choking him with all the strength in his small arms while Dahl dashed around the side of block A, out of freakhog sight. Frantic squeals filled the air and rapid gunfire became percussion under the eerie, two-toned laughing screams.

  No Joyeuse for close combat, so he had to keep distance between them and the hogs. There was no roof access on block A. If he could sneak past the edge of the blocks, the garage would provide a hiding place, and if the snowmobile was in the bay they could outrun the hogs over open ground.

  “Loosen up, buddy, it’s going to be alright, but I need to breathe.” Dahl tried to edge fingers under Fitz’s constrictor grip while he hustled along the back of the building. Around the corner he glimpsed the freakhogs, packed in the lane as tightly as locomotive flesh could possibly be, a hive-minded swarm. Dahl scrambled from the corner of block A to the corner of block B, cover to cover, out of sight of the main killing lane as fast as he could.

  Fitz was still gripping him like a vise, but at least he stayed on. Edging through knee-deep snow, Dahl kept his gun at the ready for whatever good a pistol would do against thousands of pounds of charging beast flesh. Sighting the garage a hundred feet past block B, Dahl readied himself for another panicked slog through the snowdrifts, this one far longer and more exposed. Gunfire and squeals were still bouncing off the flat concrete walls like echoes in a sewer. Whip quick, Dahl checked around the corner for anything lurking.