"Rough morning, Herron?"
I turn. Archibald stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
I exhale through my nose. "You’re late."
He smirks. "Thought you could use some help."
I don’t ask how he found me.
He stares at me for a minute too long, and I square my shoulders for it. Already knowing what’s coming.
“You want to tell me what that was about?”
“Clarity is paramount, Archie, I don’t reward vagueness with answers,” I grunt.
“She’s like a sister to me, Hayden. You can’t expect me not to check in. She doesn’t have them now.”
I know he means the twins. And I don’t care. I’m searching and failing to find the calm that usually keeps me anchored to the ground. Growing up together or not, I don’t know what misguided claim he thinks he still has on her.
“She’s not yours to worry about, and I’m not going to remind you.”
“Dotheyknow that?”
“Since when do you fucking care whether or not I have the permission of the Brotherhood?”
“Since I saw you drag her out of the room—twicenow—looking less than willing.” He says pointedly, like discussing the weather. Archie always knows how to grate my last goddamn nerve.
I shoot him a look. “Ask me about her again, and I’ll put a bullet in your head, Archibald.”
“Hey, hey,” he says with his hands raised in mock horror and lets out a full-bellied laugh. “Fuck, man. Don’t kill me for asking.”
He steps inside, nudging the unconscious man’s leg with his shoe. "You sure this is the guy? He looks half a breath away from the grave."
"It’s him," I say. "Apparently, he has some information, according to the assignment I was given this morning."
Archibald sighs, crouching beside the man. He digs his fingers into the man’s shoulder, shaking him roughly. "Wake up, junkie. You’ve got company."
The man groans, eyelids fluttering, head rolling to the side. His lips part, voice hoarse and unfocused. "Fuck off."
Archibald snorts. “He’s in a bad mood, junkie, and I’ll admit, it’s my fault,” watching the drugged-out guy's head loll to the side, Archie kicks the side of his face with his boot, “You may want to answer him.”
The man tries to roll away, but I press the edge of my boot to the side of his face, forcing him to look at me. "Tell me what you know about Douglass Huntington-Russell."
He blinks slowly, groggy and unfocused. Sucking in some drool from the side of his face, I press my boot down harder, making him cry out. “Fuck man!”
“Look, you have two options,” I say with a snarl, wanting to hurry this along. “I had a hot fuck waiting in the bath for me thatI had to put to bed because of you, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be back in time to get her back in the water to see how she responds to being drowned. Now, you can answer my fucking question, or I can cut out your tongue and make sure you never answer any questions ever again.”
Raising my eyebrow, I press my boot in harder to the side of his face.
His gaze flickers between us, mind struggling to work through the fog. Then, a flicker of something, fear, maybe, registers in his eyes. "I…I don’t work there anymore."
Archibald clicks his tongue. "That’s not what we asked."
Work where?
“Did you work for Pierre Marchand?” I demand.
His head lolls, lost in a drug-like haze. Disgusting.
