Price of Angels (Dartmoor Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  This was the front they presented, as they crossed into Shaman’s property. Michael had never felt more a part of his club. And he’d never been the reason they were entering a dangerous situation. Regret tasted foul on the back of his tongue.

  “A funeral home?” Aidan asked as they were all dismounting and ditching gloves and helmets.

  “Yeah,” Ratchet said. “One of many properties. Apparently, he likes this one best.”

  Ghost smirked up at the stone and plank façade of the two-story building before them. There was a deep portico with a brick-paved circular drive that ran beneath it. Thousands had been spent on landscaping and directional garden lighting that would illuminate the place dramatically after dark. Gold script on the sign proclaimed it Loving Embrace. The fleet of Lincoln hearses and limos were shining black and brand new, over at the opposite end of the parking lot.

  “He thinks he’s funny,” Ghost said, surveying the funeral home. “Let’s hope we’re not part of the joke.”

  Michael crammed his gloves in his back pocket, checked for the reassuring feel his gun at his waistband, and fell into step beside his president, his usual bodyguard slot. He saw Mercy’s tall shape from the corner of his eye, and for once was grateful for the giant Cajun’s presence. If they had to fight their way out of here, it would be him, and Walsh, and Mercy bearing the brunt of the counterattack.

  Glass doors slid open soundlessly as they passed beneath the portico, welcoming them first into an airlock, and then a spacious lobby, pleasantly warm air falling across them like a blanket. The lobby was carpeted in a rose color, a wide mahogany desk set in a nook across from the doors, urns heaped with live flowers filling recesses, flanking the desk. This wasn’t one of those economic funeral homes. This one had ridiculous fringed drapes in all the windows and Corinthian columns at intervals down the width of the room.

  Michael could imagine the picture they made, in black leather and denim, wet from the water on the road, grungy in every way possible.

  An immaculate employee in suit and tie came out from behind the desk and toward them. “Good morning,” he greeted, and did a good job hiding his shock and disgust. “Can I help you gentlemen this morning? A tour of the facility perhaps? Some brochures? Here at Loving Embrace, we strive to serve the final care needs of all our customers.” His gaze flicked across them with distress. He wanted them out of his lobby and back in the back looking at pamphlets, before a customer walked in and found them tracking motor oil on the carpet.

  Ghost gave him a chilly smile. “We’re here to see Shaman.”

  The man’s demeanor changed completely. He drew back, friendly smile vanishing, face going pale beneath his polished hair. “You’re acquainted with Mr. Shaman?”

  “Yeah. Tell him the Lean Dogs want a little chat.”

  The man drew in a breath, frowning. “I’m not sure – that is, Mr. Shaman is terribly busy–”

  “That’s fine. We’ll just wait over here.” Ghost gestured to a row of dainty chairs along the front wall.

  The employee blanched further. “No, no, that’s alright. Come with me.” He turned and gestured to the girl behind the desk, and she nodded, reaching for the phone. “Right this way, gentlemen,” he said, and led them around a corner and down a long, rose-carpeted hall, lined with more columns, more stupid drapes.

  “It’s so fancy,” Mercy said, somewhere behind Michael. “I just wanna…lick my fingers and touch everything.”

  “Don’t,” Ghost said.

  “You lick it you buy it,” Tango said with a laugh.

  “Children, please,” Walsh said. “We’re in a place of money-worship.”

  A scattering of laughter at that.

  The clerk with the stick up his ass led them to an elevator and pressed the UP arrow for them. He stepped back, as a hum issued from the shaft, the car descending. “You’ll have to give your names to the man at the desk,” he said, and then withdrew, leaving them.

  Thankfully, they hadn’t brought Candyman, or Troy, or Hound, because it was a tight squeeze in the elevator even without them.

  “Shit, sorry,” Rottie muttered as the doors closed on them.

  “Admit it; you liked it,” RJ returned.

  There was a shove.

  Ghost said, “Knock it off.”

  Then they were at the second floor, and the door was sweeping open. They were in a narrow hall flanked by doors, each with keyless passcard entry panels.

  A desk stood at the end, beside a dark paneled door, another well-groomed suit-wearing associate waiting for them.

  “You’re here to see Mr. Shaman?”

  Ghost nodded. “Ghost Teague, Kingston Walsh, Michael McCall–”

  “Aidan Teague, Kevin Estes, Robert Tallow, Ryan James Ford, and Felix Lécuyer,” the associate finished with a small grin. “Yes, he knows who you are. He’s been expecting you.”

  His hand disappeared beneath his desk; there was a buzz, then a click as the door unlocked. “Go on in.”

  Ghost stared at him, mildly astonished. “You’re not gonna pat us down for weapons?”

  “No, sir. We assume you have them. And we assure you that they wouldn’t do you much good if you reached for them.”

  Michael felt a sinking in his gut. This was bad. This was beyond bad. This was big league shit, and they were just outlaw mechanics, after all. The Lean Dogs empire paled in his mind, faced with this coy moneyed flexing of supreme power.

  No time to dwell on it, though, because his president was at the door, and he had to go through it first, taking point as security. He shoved all his thoughts down low, and went into bodyguard mode. The sergeant at arms and nothing else, a vessel for violence and a watchful set of eyes.

  They entered a large, hardwood-floored room, a sitting room of some kind. Plush white rugs, groupings of chrome and leather sofas and chairs. Shelves full of books, knick-knacks, potted plants. And a whole wall of windows, overlooking the street below.

  Beyond, a wide case opening led into another, equally posh room, this one done up as an office, with desk, computer, and more shelves. “Stay out there, please,” a voice called from within. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  A light, cultured, British voice. Not like Walsh’s London commoner accent, but something more subtle and sophisticated.

  Michael positioned himself to the front and side of Ghost, ready to defend him, a hand on the butt of his gun. The others ranged out, a loose line, a wall of bikers, as the owner of the voice stepped into view from around the casement and walked toward them.

  Michael wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

  He was tall and very thin, his suit tailored and fitted to accentuate the narrowness of his hips, the long slender lengths of arm and leg. His hands, as he brought them up to clasp loosely in front of him, were pale and narrow, the fingers long, bone-thin. Piano-playing hands. His face was as narrow as the rest of him, harsh, blade-edged, the round curves of his brows the only softening. Masculine in a spare, pretty sort of way. His hair was a deep, shining auburn, worn long, brushed back from his forehead and behind his ears, falling in a straight sheet past his shoulders. Dark gray suit, white shirt, open at the throat, no tie.

  He was young, not much older than thirty. And he was altogether freakish in how unlikely he was. Michael had been thinking of heavy, shiny-skinned Italians, or big-shouldered Russians, or iron-haired Dennis Farina types, chomping cigars and flashing jeweled rings and making Tony Soprano style threats.

  Michael swore he could hear how stunned his brothers were.

  “Shaman?” Ghost asked. “You’re Shaman?”

  “That’s what they call me,” the man said, voice light, his spare smile cool, but not unfriendly.

  There was a choked sound from Michael’s side of the room. A cough, a gag, something. And then Tango said, “Ian.”

  Michael turned his head to regard the overly pierced blonde member. He’d gone white as paper, all the blood drained from his
face. His blue eyes were huge, startled, terrified. He breathed through his mouth, uneven inhalations that rattled at the back of his throat. His gaze was fixed on the tall Englishman, and his expression was unmistakable. He’d seen this man before. He knew him. He had a past of some sort with him, because no one gawked and sputtered like this when they encountered a stranger.

  Aidan laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder and squeezed, his knuckles paling. “Ian? This is the Ian you–” He clamped his mouth shut when Tango turned a wild, rolling gaze on him, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

  Shaman stepped closer, his smile shifting, becoming softer, somehow sad. “Hello, Kevin,” he said. “It’s been a very long time.”

  Scowling at their host, Aidan stepped in front of Tango, between the two of them. A change had come over him; this wasn’t his usual cocky bastard swagger, but some desperate, true emotion, anger boiling up in his dark eyes. “Hey shithead, don’t talk to him.”

  “Aidan,” Walsh hissed.

  Shaman ignored them. “What do they call you now? Tango, is it?” His smile widened, a brightness coming into his huge light eyes. “That’s fitting, isn’t it? You always did move beautifully.”

  Tango pushed his hands through the haphazard spikes of his hair. He looked about four seconds away from a total breakdown.

  “Does someone wanna tell me what the hell’s going on?” Ghost asked.

  Shaman turned to him, smile dropping back to a polite curving of thin lips. “I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of history with one of your men. Kevin and I worked together, you could say.” Wry twitch to one corner of the smile. “We were both Carla’s boys, years ago.”

  “What does that mean?” Ghost demanded.

  Shaman shrugged, an elegant gesture. “If he hasn’t told you, I suspect he doesn’t want to now.” His gaze went back to Aidan and Tango. “He’s told his friend though. Hasn’t he?” he asked Aidan.

  Aidan hooked an arm around Tango’s shoulders and steered him toward the door. “We’ll be in the hall.”

  Shaman watched them go, attention fixed until the door latched into place, then stepped back and gave Ghost his full attention. “Sorry. Where were we? Ah, you came to see me. So maybe you should be the one doing the talking.” He gestured to the scattered furniture with one long arm. “Make yourselves at home. Something to drink? I can have Mona bring something up.”

  “Nah,” Ghost said. “We won’t be here long.”

  Shaman settled onto the arm of the nearest chair, legs stretched before him. He twirled one hand through the air, an invitation. “Well by all means, let’s begin.”

  “Kev.” Aidan laid a hand on top of his best friend’s head, amid the crunchy spikes of blonde hair, at a loss as to how to help. Tango sat on the floor, his back to the wall, not at all caring that the receptionist douchebag was giving them a distasteful glance. He breathed into his cupped hands, irregular, sharp draws of air. He was shaking.

  “Kev,” Aidan repeated. “That’s him? You’re sure?”

  With an effort, Tango leaned back, letting his head fall against the wall. His eyes were slick when they lifted. “That’s him. Christ, yeah, that’s him. I have no idea…how did he even…he’s rich. Christ.”

  Aidan righted himself, sighing. “How’s a dancing boy end up the richest, most powerful asshole in the Southeast underground?”

  “I don’t know.” Tango closed his eyes, his face pained as he swallowed. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…I shouldn’t have…I just…”

  It was a shock. A raw, awful slap from his past, a ghost he’d never thought to encounter again.

  “It’s alright,” Aidan said quietly. “It’s fine.”

  Except for Tango, it wasn’t.

  “The Jessups,” Shaman said, with a graceful frown. “Sorry lot, aren’t they? Maybe half a brain between the three of them.”

  Michael sat beside Ghost on a gray leather sofa, hand still on his gun, mind spinning as he tried to digest how unexpected everything about this scenario was.

  Ghost said, “There’s just two of them now. The brothers. Something happened to the little one.”

  Shaman nodded. “Not surprising. How are they working out for you? Have they pestered you beyond sanity yet?”

  Looking bemused, Ghost said, “Yeah, pretty much.” He proceeded to give a brief summary of what had transpired, a summary of their threats about Holly.

  “I was led to believe you’d be pissed if I told them to go to hell.”

  Shaman rolled his eyes dramatically. “Is that what they said? Damn. The fools. Some people never make good employees. You give them one little job, and suddenly they think you care about them.” He frowned. “What did you tell them?”

  “That’s I’d come talk to you. And here I am.”

  Shaman twitched a non-smile. “And so you are.” He plucked a bit of lint off his jacket sleeve, saying, casually, “You of course may do whatever you want to them. Give the girl back, don’t give her back, I don’t care. Kill them if you like. I assume that’s what happened to the one with the ears – you killed him?”

  Ghost said nothing.

  Shaman shrugged. “They’re of no use to me, either way. Do what you like.”

  “Then why use them at all?” Walsh said. “You sent them to us. And suddenly you don’t need them?”

  “They were supposed to report back to me about your operation,” he said, addressing his countryman. “They failed to do so. As it turns out, opportunistic Bible-thumping hillbillies are just that – hillbillies. They don’t make very good informants.”

  The fact that he was speaking so openly with them, admitting that he’d wanted to spy on them, unnerved Michael. This was no cackling madman revealing his master plan out of overwhelming pride in the last act of a bad romance novel. This was a civilized conversation. And this was a dangerous, dangerous smart man sitting across from them.

  Ghost knew it, too. “So what do you want, Shaman?” He smirked. “The satisfaction of giving us a break?”

  He snorted. “Hardly. When I do something just for satisfaction’s sake, it’s a lot more fun that this. No offense, gentlemen. You’re delightful company.”

  “Then what?”

  He pitched forward, bracing his thin forearms on his thighs, large eyes sparkling. “I want to owe you a favor, Mr. Teague. I want you to do me the favor of dealing with the Jessups, and owe me one in return.”

  “That sounds like a shit idea.”

  Shaman smiled, flashing white, straight teeth, the effect dazzling, masculine and feminine at the same time. “Oh, but it’s nice. I’m a very good debt to have, you see. I’ve yet to find a favor I couldn’t grant.”

  “Yeah?” Ghost was furious, and maybe, just maybe, an appropriate amount of scared.

  “I want us to be friends,” Shaman said. “Your club fascinates me, and I want to help you at some point in the future.”

  “If my boy in the hall’s anything to go by, your ‘help’ ends up in a lot of hyperventilating.”

  Shaman drew back, smile fading. “It’s unfortunate that he responded that way. Kevin…” He shook his head. “Let’s not dwell on that. Let’s shake hands, and part on friendly terms, and look forward to seeing one another again.”

  Ghost stared at him a long moment. “I don’t have a choice either way, do I?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. But it’s so much more comforting to talk as if you do.”

  “Why’d you do that?” Aidan and Ghost were faced off from one another in the parking lot. It was starting to snow again, light, swirling flakes.

  “Because I don’t want another war,” Ghost said, hands on his hips. He glanced around his son, toward Tango, who stood beside his bike, smoking a cigarette and staring at his boots. “Shaman. You know him from…?”

  Tango nodded his head.

  “And he was one of the…?”

  Another miserable nod. He scuffed his toes across the asphalt and his fingers shook on the cigarette.

&n
bsp; “Jesus Christ.”

  “Somebody wanna fill me in?” RJ asked.

  “No,” Ghost and Aidan said together.

  Everyone was looking at Tango, wildly curious. All but Ghost, and Aidan, and Mercy for some reason, whose jaw was set at a grim angle like he already knew.

  And Michael. Other people’s history didn’t interest him in the least.

  He turned away from the sad spectacle of Tango’s discomfiture and faced the wet street; it glittered like onyx against the backdrop of snow. His palms itched, tension curling and uncurling in his gut. He had the go-ahead; now he wanted to take the action. Wherever the Jessups were right now, his knife was hungry for their throats.

  He felt a touch at his shoulder and turned to find Mercy standing behind him. He lifted his brows in silent question.

  “I was gonna see,” Mercy said, “if you wanted some help.”

  “With the brothers?”

  He grinned. “Well unless you want me to diagram iambic pentameter for you, or boil a pot of crawfish, I’ve only got one kind of help to dole out.”

  Michael almost smiled. Almost. “Thanks, but I can handle them.”

  “You sure? I’d love to take that brick and put it through their faces.”

  “I’m sure.” Michael gave a short, tight nod. His neck was stiff with tension. “I need to do this myself.”

  “I get that.” Mercy’s expression was free of all judgment. Lowering his voice, he said, “They hurt Holly bad, didn’t they?”

  More than words could express. “Yeah.”

  Mercy clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Good luck.”

  Twenty-Four

  Snow was different outside the city. While a dusting of white lent an air of the magical to lampposts and parked cars and storefront awnings, it lay against open pasture like a lover, and brought every beautiful curve and hollow to life. It crusted the pine boughs in crystal sugar shards. It drifted between tree trunks and frosted every fencepost.