Ferryman, who at twenty-eight, only has eight years on Angel, shrugs him off. The guy survived a rival gang’s bullet that was meant for Crow. The shot grazed his head and earned him the gang’s unwavering esteem for saving our president’s life. “You’re a dick.”
Angel kisses the top of Ferryman’s head. “You love us.”
“Like I love hemorrhoids,” he grouches, but the comment lacks teeth because this is what we do. We fuck with each other. “You’re getting too much like Jester.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have ’rhoids if Havoc wasn’t living up there,” Roswell remarks with a smirk.
“I’m really going to hurt you,” Ferryman grumbles.
“Hey, now,” Jester chimes in. “Being like me isn’t a bad thing.”
“It is if these two idiots don’t want to live to see their twenty-first birthdays,” I snap, since not a day goes by when someone doesn’t threaten to murder Jester.
Wraith pushes his muscular body off the sofa and slides his phone into the back pocket of his faded blue jeans. “And on that note, I’ll let upper management know Sundown is here.”
Sundown tracks Wraith as he crosses Sanctum’s huge main room. After Wraith disappears down the hallway, he asks again, “So, Havoc, where’ve you been?”
It’s way too tempting to smash my beer bottle over his head. “Mind your business, Sundown,” I grunt out, which isn’t uncommon. I’m moody and not usually chatty with anyone outside my circle of close friends—which doesn’t include him.
Flask slams a bottle of Yuengling and a shot in front of Sundown. “Drink up, son. You’re gonna need this.”
“Thanks, Flask.” Sundown grabs his drinks and turns away from the bar. He holds up the shot glass to the six of us. “It’s an honor to join your rank.”
Bull. Shit.
If it was an honor, he’d have been loyal.
Sundown throws back the shot. He follows it up with a healthy swallow of beer before spinning around to face the bar. At the same moment, Wraith, the enforcer’s unofficial leader, gives us a terse nod as he marches in from the hallway.
“It’s time.” His baritone voice cuts through the room like a sharpened blade.
“Let’s go, princess.” Discord slaps Sundown on the back. “Time to face the council.”
Sundown takes one last gulp of beer. He sets the bottle down on the old, scarred wood of the bar and draws in a fortifying breath. Smooths a hand over his gray button-down shirt and adjusts the black leather belt of his crisp, dark blue jeans. He blows the air from his lungs and puffs out his chest. “I’m ready.”
No, you fucking aren’t.
Jester comes up behind him and, to be a dick, musses his tidy brown hair. “Look at you, all growed-up and dressed spiffy for this special occasion.” He dabs the corner of his dry eye with a fingertip. “It’s enough to make a man cry.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Wraith growls.
“When I’m too serious, you complain.” Jester tosses up his hands in exasperation. “When I’m too playful, you complain.” He wags his finger at Wraith. “I’m thinking this is a ‘you’ problem and not a ‘me’ issue.”
“Please tell me the last time I accused you of being too serious.” Wraith, the feral bastard, literally snarls the words at our shared best friend.
Not that I blame him. I want to choke Jester, too, sometimes. But his sense of humor is one of the many reasons we love him. He knows how to lighten a mood when the occasion calls for it. And right now, we could benefit from his special brand of comedy to keep us from forgetting the rules and killing Sundown where he stands.
Jester thinks a moment before saying, “Okay, never, but there’s always a first time for everything.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Wraith growls.
I shove my way by their brawny bodies andfeelSundown fall in step behind me.
If my friends weren’t behind Sundown, I would never turn my back on him. But theyarehere, and I’m protected as we walk down the hallway. Past the currently vacant rooms that are always occupied when Sanctum is active. We enter the meeting room, a sacred space, at the end of the hallway. One that gets swept regularly for listening devices because, as Sundown proved, we never know if a rat is hiding in our house.
We file inside. Waiting for us is upper management. They’re seated at the wooden, rectangular table. Every Unholy, from the Founding Fathers up to our newest member, has carved his name into the tabletop. We’ve etched our history into the storied mahogany in chicken scrawl to elegant grooves—including the erasure of Sundown’s name.
Crow has gouged it away in deep, angry slashes.
