Celt. (Den of Mercenaries Book 2)

by London Miller

  Kyrnon shook his head. “Told you the lad wouldn’t last.”

  “Of course you did, because you know everything.”

  Amber smiled, not knowing whether she was being sarcastic, or she actually thought Kyrnon knew everything.

  “Smart arse. Tierra, this is Amber, my lovely date. Amber, meet—”

  “His friend ’til the bitter end. That’s what he told me once, but I’m thinking he’s regretting that now,” Tierra said with a smile in her direction.

  Kyrnon smirked. “I said nothing of the sort. She just latched onto me like a leech one day and I’ve yet to shake her off.”

  “And luckily for you,” Tierra said quickly. “It won’t be tonight either. What can I get you?”

  Amber ordered water with lemon while Kyrnon got tea, but when it came time to order the food, he ordered them both a ‘Breakfast Explosion.’

  “It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth,” he said with a wink as Tierra skated away, placing their menus back in the holder. “Guaranteed.”

  Shaking her head, Amber turned the straw in her drink. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “So … you wanna tell me about them?”

  It had been so long since Amber had shared this story with anyone. As far as she could remember, the last time she had talked to anyone about their breakup—at least the important details—was to her mother, and that was only because she asked after seeing him and Piper together. She didn’t think it would hurt to share one more time.

  “Rob and I were together for five years before everything went left. One weekend a few years ago, I was visiting my parents out in California, but ended up coming back early. I caught them in my bed of all places.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Amber shrugged like it was no big deal. “At first I was okay. I just tried to focus on anything else, then I missed him, actually tried to convince him why I was good enough for him.”

  Now that admission was something she had never confessed to anyone. At that point, she was low. Depressed maybe, and missing what they used to have. But as quickly as she had sunk that low, she dragged herself back out of it and got it together.

  She expected pity from him, but there wasn’t any in Kyrnon’s expression, far from it. “You shouldn’t have needed to do that. If he couldn’t see what he had standing there in front of him, the fella’s an eejit.”

  Amber almost smiled. “You don’t—”

  “Need to say that? I do if it’s true. And trust me, it is.”

  What could she say to that? If not for the sincerity in his tone, she might have thought he was simply stating a line, trying to lower her defenses, but even with just this short amount of time around him, she didn’t think he was that kind of person.

  Their food arrived shortly after, both plates heaping with everything imaginable. Grits, hash browns, eggs, three different kinds of meat, and that didn’t include the pancakes on the side. While she didn’t think she would be able to finish it all, she was definitely going to try.

  Squirting ketchup on her hash browns, Amber stirred them as she asked, “Is this where I ask you what you do, Kyrnon?”

  “I track acquisitions,” he said, biting into a strip of bacon.

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “Say you lost something, I can help you find it.”

  “Like a private investigator?”

  “Or a bounty hunter of expensive things. Same difference.”

  “That sounds… interesting.”

  It was unlike anything that she had ever heard, but in this city, it wasn’t completely unreasonable.

  “And you? You work at that gallery?”

  She nodded, ignoring his change of subject. “I do, and I paint.”

  “I ken you’re good at that—you have that look about you.”

  “Do I?” she asked.

  “No one looks at art the way you did at Cedar, and not dabble in it,” Kyrnon said easily.

  Conversation with Kyrnon was easy, relaxing even, and as the hours slipped away, Amber realized that she wasn’t tired at all. And now seeing that he hadn’t just stumbled into the gallery, but he actually knew about different artists and their works, she found herself relaxing further. There was common ground.

  By the time their food was gone and the diner had emptied of most of its guests, they were still there, sitting opposite each other. Amber found that she wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. She was enjoying his company, but she still had a job to do, and with only three weeks to do it, she needed to get some sleep so she’d be able to focus in the morning.

  Like he could read her thoughts, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a couple of twenty dollar bills and dropped them on the table. “Ready?”

  She nodded, grabbing his jacket and taking his hand when he offered it once more as they headed out into the night.

  The journey from the diner back to her apartment was over far too soon, but she did drag herself off his bike despite not wanting to leave him.

  Before she could get far, however, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone and handing it to her, all before he even said, “Give me your number.”

  Unbidden, a smile bloomed. “You’re not even going to ask?”

  With all the arrogance a man could possess, he shook his head. “Would it change the result?”

  Not bothering to respond, Amber plugged her number in before handing him back the device. Afterward, she started to pull his jacket off, but he shook his head before she could get it off.

  “Give it back next time.”

  “Next time?” she questioned with a smile.

  Turning the key, the engine of his motorcycle roared to life. Fitting his helmet back on, Kyrnon winked at her. “Or maybe the time after that.”

  Chapter Four

  Parking his bike a few blocks down, Kyrnon headed for the pub at the corner, one that had been completely gutted and renovated after a fire had nearly destroyed it a few months prior. Though he hadn’t been around much over the last several weeks, he could already see the differences from his first time venturing into The Parting Glass.

  Though it was only twelve-thirty on a Tuesday, the place was still packed, all eyes on the televisions, two displaying rugby matches, and another showing American football.

  Darting between tables was a woman with bright red hair, and a rather prominent baby bump—twins, Red had told him. Hoisted up on her shoulder was a tray topped with baskets of fries and enough drinks to let him know the thing was damn heavy.

  “Come now, you’re not supposed to be doing any lifting,” Kyrnon said as he intercepted her, easily taking the burden from her hands. Almost immediately, her shoulders sagged with relief.

  “It wasn’t that bad,” Reagan said as she turned green eyes on him, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “I can handle myself, Celt.”

  He didn’t doubt that, especially given her choice in a mate. “Right. Where’s Red?”

  She pointed to the bar where the Russian was standing behind it, mixing drinks and looking terribly out of place considering what Kyrnon knew he was capable of.

  “Will you ever start calling him by his name?” Reagan asked as she gestured for him to follow along. “It’s not like you don’t know it.”

  True enough, but Red had never been ‘Niklaus’ to him, not even after their training, nor after he actually learned the man’s name, though that information had come years later.

  Their names, or at least the ones they answered to on the job, were just as much a part of their identities as their birth names.

  And for some—like Red and Kyrnon—their names were tied to a past they didn’t want remembered. It was much easier for him to be Celt, the master thief – the mercenary for hire. But ‘Kyrnon’? That name reminded him of a time in his life he longed to escape. Not many understood the power of a name, how a single word could inflict a lifetime of emotions.

  He would give his brother-in-arms anything he ask
ed for, but not that. Some things he just needed to keep to himself.

  And the last thing he wanted was someone’s sympathy if they knew just what brought Kyrnon to the Den.

  “True,” Kyrnon agreed, “but I’ve only known him as Red. That’s not going to change.”

  Whether she accepted his word, or perhaps Red had explained a few things to her, she left it at that, walking alongside him as she showed him which tables the food belonged to. Finished, he set the tray on the bar top before taking a seat in a newly vacated stool, grinning when he caught Red’s attention.

  Slapping a hand down on the polished concrete, Kyrnon asked, “How’s about a pint of the black stuff?”

  “Fuck off.”

  In his thirty-two years of living, Kyrnon didn’t think he had ever met anyone as perpetually annoyed as Red seemed to be. It was like the man was born with a bad attitude, but knowing what he had gone through, and that was even before the training Kyrnon had inflicted on him, he could understand.

  A few days was all it had taken before he lost everything that mattered to him, including a life he could never go back to. Resentment had festered and grew until it was the only thing he knew. But Red had finally seemed to make peace with it all … even if it hadn’t helped his attitude.

  “You called me here, remember? If not for a drink, what in the hell do you want?”

  Red nodded his head toward the hallway. “I’m just the messenger.”

  Kyrnon’s easy mood disappeared. “If he wanted a meet, he could have called me directly.”

  That was one thing Kyrnon didn’t understand about the Kingmaker. He had a habit of calling on one of them to get in contact with another just to pass his message along.

  Kyrnon had understood the need to call him in when the man had asked for a meeting with Red, it wasn’t like the surly bastard would agree to it without Kyrnon having stepped in.

  But now? Now, he didn’t get it.

  “Not him.”

  “Who—”

  “For fuck’s sake, woman. What’d I say?” Red demanded, garnering the attention of half the men sitting at the bar, but just as quickly as he was the focus, they turned their eyes back to the game.

  Reagan, who had been in the midst of grabbing another tray, carefully pulling food from the window, paused, unbothered by Red’s surly disposition. “Someone has to do it.”

  “Then he’ll do it,” Red responded, gesturing to the other man behind the bar, who looked like he would rather be anywhere but there. “Which is what I told you the first time you grabbed that damn tray.”

  “Must you act like an ass? At least when I get emotional, I can blame it on the pregnancy. What’s your excuse?”

  If anything, that only made it worse. “Idti—Go.”

  “Don’t order me around, Niklaus,” Reagan said with a huff. “I’m pregnant, not helpless.”

  Slapping a hand down on the bar, Red leaned toward her. “Now.”

  Throwing her hands up in frustration, she did as he asked, stepping behind the bar as she glared at him. “Happy?”

  Pressing a kiss to her forehead as he moved around her, he said, “Always.”

  Just as quickly as he had irked her nerves, her frustration drained away. “Go on, she’s waiting for you.”

  She?

  Kyrnon didn’t get the chance to speak before Red was parting from her, moving around the corner, and waving for him to follow.

  With a smile, Kyrnon called out, “Always a pleasure, Reagan.” As they headed toward a closed door in the back of the pub, Kyrnon looked around. “Who’s waiting on you?”

  “Not just me,” Red said as he turned the knob, shoving the door open.

  “Who are—”

  But it only took a knife being flung through the air, the blade embedding itself in the center target of the board next to the door for Kyrnon to know just who was inside the room.

  Calavera.

  One of the Den, she was as deadly as she was beautiful. Most underestimated her—Kyrnon had too at one time until she had shown him exactly what she was capable of—because she was slight of frame, even as she was taller than most females at five-ten.

  But the woman had a thing for knives, and knew how to use them.

  Unlike the lot of them who had the Den choose them, Calavera had willingly sought it out. Her reasons were her own, and as was their custom, no one asked for what she didn’t freely offer.

  One thing had been rather clear though once she had come to the Den for formal training and assignment—she was a master at knives and manipulation. They all had their specialties, but her talents got her places they couldn’t get to.

  Turning warm brown eyes on him, her lips turned up at the corners as she crossed the polished floors, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of her knife and giving it a tug. “It’s been a while, Celt. Where’ve you been hiding?”

  Despite knowing each other for more than half a decade, Kyrnon hadn’t stuck around Calavera for any long period of time since their training days. In recent years, he only saw her when one or the other was on an assignment and needed assistance, or they just happened to be in the same city at the same time.

  But he definitely hadn’t seen her since word of Z’s death worked its way through the channels. Even if she didn’t show it, he knew she took Z’s death hard—she had been rather close with him from what he remembered.

  That wasn’t to say the mercenaries that called the Den home weren’t close—they all had each other—but each of them had gravitated toward one other on their team, their loyalties lying with them first, and the others second.

  Kyrnon and Red.

  Calavera and Skorpion.

  Syn and Winter—even though Winter was not officially under contract, it was easier to think of her that way.

  They were just someone they trusted a bit more.

  “Right here,” Kyrnon said as he dragged Calavera into a quick hug, mussing her hair as he had done since she was a teenager. “Keeping this one out of trouble. I thought you hated the east coast?”

  She and Skorpion both, actually. While Skorpion had a condo on the beach, spending most of his mornings trying to catch that perfect wave, Calavera took up residence in an apartment on the Vegas Strip. She rarely ventured this far east, and if he were being honest, it almost felt like she avoided New York entirely.

  “I won’t be here long,” she said, thanking Niklaus with a smile as he tossed her a bottle of Sprite from a mini refrigerator against the wall of the office. “The Kingmaker asked for a meeting.”

  It wasn’t uncommon, them all having jobs at the same time—they even overlapped occasionally—but they were never ordered to the same city at the same time.

  And as he thought on it, Kyrnon also wondered what was making the Kingmaker choose the assignments he gave out. They usually were paid a fee to either hurt, kill, steal, or retrieve something, but the Kingmaker had only sent Red after a name, and now Kyrnon was trying to find a stolen painting.

  It seemed fair enough for him—he did specialize in art theft—to be assigned the job he had, but even still, this all still felt personal—too personal in fact.

  Personal ties were a hindrance.

  But Kyrnon didn’t have all the answers.

  Not yet at least, but he would … no matter how long it took.

  “What do you think of him?” Kyrnon asked, dropping down into one of the chairs.

  Calavera hopped up onto the table, stiletto boots swinging as she twisted the top off her drink. “Of the Kingmaker?”

  Kyrnon nodded.

  “He’s fine.”

  “Is that the best you can do?” Red interjected, shaking his head.

  “You asked my opinion, I gave it. Besides, he’s not new to me. Z-Zachariah,” she only slightly stumbled over his name, “spoke of him often.”

  “And …”

  “And?”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Red snapped impatiently.

  Calavera laughed, seeming delighted in th
e face of his agitation. “Ask the question you want answered.”

  “Who is the Kingmaker to you?” Kyrnon asked, his voice low and controlled. When Calavera looked to him in surprise, he shrugged. “When people talk in circles, they’re avoiding. The question is, what about him are you avoiding?”

  “Are you fucking him?” Red asked. There was no accusation to his words, no disgust despite how much he hated the man—he was genuinely curious.

  She cringed. “Of course not. He’s my brother-in-law.”

  Kyrnon dropped his feet to the ground as he looked to Calavera in surprise. Unbidden, his gaze dropped to the hand she had wrapped around the bottle she held. There was no ring, he knew—he would have remembered a detail like that—but there was a tattoo on her ring finger.

  A sugar skull.

  Was that how she got her name?

  “When the hell did you get married?”

  “The Kingmaker has a brother?”

  Both questions were asked simultaneously, the latter coming from Red. He looked more bothered by the possibility that the Kingmaker had siblings than what she had just revealed.

  “The answer to the first is not important. To the second, their family is vast.”

  Something was wrong … he could see it in the way she looked just beyond them as she spoke. She was being too careful with her words.

  The question was, who was she trying to protect?

  The mystery brother, or the Kingmaker?

  “Is that why you’re not saying anything?” Kyrnon asked. “Protecting their secrets?”

  “I only ever promised to keep my mouth shut about one of them … the other I owe a debt.”

  And Kyrnon could guess to whom each belonged. He understood her loyalty, even if it frustrated him.

  “But,” she added, “I can tell you that he owns us.”

  “What?” Red asked, taking a black zippo lighter from his pocket, flipping the top open and shut with a flick of his thumb. “What do you mean he owns us?”

  “The Den, he started it.”

  “Impossible,” Kyrnon cut in. “Z has been doing this for over a decade. You want me to believe that the Kingmaker started this when he was what? Nineteen?”

  Calavera shrugged. “You’ve seen what he’s capable of, what he has us do. If you think we have enemies, imagine people just as powerful as him wanting to see him dead. We’re his protection.”