Tessa’s voice is quiet. “And then you kept her.”
Queenie’s mouth turns grim. “Then I kept her where I could see her. Where she couldn’t slither off and ruin more lives.”
“And she’s… different now?” I ask, still struggling to reconcile breakfast-table Silver with the girl Queenie is describing.
Queenie exhales slowly. “She’s still a work in progress.”
Christina snorts. “That’s Queenie-speak for ‘she’s still got a mouth on her and a mean streak, but she’s not actively selling women to predators anymore’.”
“She’s okay,” Tessa adds. Then gives a rueful smile. “Mostly. We’re just hoping that her good side rubs off on Heaven, and not vice versa.”
My eyes flick to Silver again, and this time I see her differently. A piece of the club’s history walking around in silver booty shorts and mascara.
Something in me settles, like a librarian filing a record into the right drawer.
I let out a slow breath. “This definitely needs to be in the archives,” I say, unable to help myself.
Christina laughs outright. Tessa’s mouth curves. Even Queenie’s lips twitch, though she tries to hide it behind her mug.
“The archives,” Queenie repeats, sounding half exasperated and half fond. “I guess it does. When I asked you to catalog our history, I was mainly thinking about the formation of the club and the early years.”
“It all matters,” I insist. “It explains why everyone looks at her the way they do. It explains why… things are the way they are.”
Queenie studies me for a long moment. Then she nods once, sharp. “Yeah. It does.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Just remember, some stories aren’t meant to be written down where they can be found.”
I nod immediately. “I understand.”
Queenie takes another sip of her coffee, gaze still hard. “Good.”
At the far end of the table, Silver shifts like she can feel the attention on her skin. Her eyes flick up again, briefly meeting mine. There’s something wary there. Something defensive, but she gives me a smile. Then she looks away.
Queenie watches her for a heartbeat and mutters, almost to herself, “Work in progress.”
Chapter 18
Onyx
If we weren’t on such an important mission, I would enjoy the ride more. As it stands, all I can think about is getting my hands on Charles Brennan. I’m gonna make the beatdown I gave him last time seem like child’s play. I can’t stand that fucker. If I’m being honest, I think his girlfriend ran off because she got tired of his entitled, controlling bullshit. I know he’s rich, but no woman with her head screwed on straight would put up with him for long. I hope that whoever she is, she’s living her best life somewhere safe where he’ll never find her.
It takes over two hours to get to Sliverwood. It’s just miles and miles of wilderness with an occasional house. At some point, the asphalt gives way to cracked tar and hardpack gravel. The density of trees increases with every mile. They’re thick-barked and crooked, with limbs that haven’t been trimmed back in decades.
We crest a narrow rise in the road and cut left onto a secondary road, following the map Striker sent us. Since there are no cell towers, we can’t use our navigation apps. I gesture with one hand towards the half-forgotten pullout that used to be a staging site for timber hauls. It’s the place Striker picked for a meeting spot, and I can see why. It’s flat enough to park. Mica and I pull off the road. We’re on high ground here with good lines of sight in all directions.
I kill the engine, and Mica knocks his kickstand down with a crunch. “Jesus. This is denser than I thought. You sure thisis where that asshole meant when he said Silverwood instead of Sliverwood?”
“Yeah,” I say. “There is no Silverwood, so this has gotta be it. Brennan was just too stupid to pronounce it right.”
Striker and Jasper join us. We all pull our bikes back to make room for the others. Striker pulls out his laptop and searches for a signal for a few minutes before frowning. “There’s no signal here of any kind, no cell or even a satellite signal. We’re dark unless you want me to climb a tree and install a temporary booster. It might work, and it might not.”
“No, we can use the two-way radios,” Jasper answers as other brothers crowd into the clearing on their bikes. He raises his voice. “Pair up. Keep your radios on at all times. No one goes off alone, and no one wanders out of range.”
Forge is the first dog out. She plants her feet firmly on the ground. Her ears are pointing straight up, and her eyes are sharp. Her tail is twitching with anticipation. My dog is lean, all muscle. Her coat is black with almost imperceptible streaks of rust at the muzzle and tail. I crouch to check her harness and feel her body vibrating with excitement.
Sable steps out of her sidecar next. She’s slower but immediately dips her head down to sniff at the ground. Mica’s already whispering praise into her ear to get her motivated.
“This terrain’s going to suck for their pads,” Husk says, tossing us booties for the dogs. He’s by far the best kennel master we’ve ever had. This guy thinks of everything. “There is a lot of deadfall lying around and there is no telling what’s under that. If they cut themselves on rusted wire or something, we’ll be carrying them back.”
“Noted,” Mica says as he bends to put Sable’s booties on.
