“Not the same if I don’t find it myself,” I muttered, relaxing my hands. I had to consciously urge them to stay unclenched. Every part of me wanted to make fists and start wailing on the first thing I saw. Which would be Otto right now, and I really didn’t want to maim my go-to parts guy.
“Tell me anyways,” he pushed.
So, I did. Otto pursed his mouth and nodded slowly. “You’re one lucky bastard.”
“And you’re way off base,” I countered.
“I’ve got a buddy coming in tomorrow. He’s closing down his shop, bringing me all the parts wholesale.”
“How the fuck does that help me?” I bit back the snarl. I tried to sound polite.
“Guy specialized in Mustangs. Got everything from a ‘57 to an ‘82. Fairly sure the inventory listed a few Holley carbs.” Otto turned away and began ambling towards his trailer. “I just wrapped up the books. I’m heading home. Lock the gate when you leave.”
I watched the old fucker go. He knew I’d take the bait.
Bet he’d charge up the ass for the parts too.
But I didn’t care. I was going to pretend that this was a win, one I’d earned.
I'd be back tomorrow, soon as closing time hit.
Lingering until Otto left, because one interaction with the geezer was enough, I made my way to my bike. I lifted the kickstand, then popped the motorcycle into neutral with a half-click up from first gear. I walked slowly, guiding the bike, untilI was outside the gate. Engaging the kickstand, I pulled the rolling gate closed, looped the chain around the fence pole, and fastened the clunky padlock.
The drive back to the DemonX compound took forty minutes from the outskirts of Vegas. I cranked up Slick Knot—the thrasher metal blaring through the helmets built-in speakers—to drown out the restless chatter in my brain. The desert at night was a black void, and I liked it that way—nothing but me, the road, and a wall of sound vibrating through my chest, up into my jaw, and terminating in my teeth.
Punching my code into the compound’s security keypad, I revved the engine a few times as I made my way to the row of bikes not far from my garage sanctuary. Reluctantly, I turned off the music and cut the bike’s engine. There was always some noise in the night—ambulances, shouts, gunfire, stray dogs—but after the ear-splitting din of the music, the evening sounded silent.
The hollow quiet never lasted long. As expected, a door slammed somewhere inside the compound, followed by a pissed-off shout. It used to be raucous laughter more often than anger, but those days were gone. A few lights still glowed in windows. None of us slept normal hours. I rolled my shoulders, trying to work out the tension that had settled there like concrete. Did I want to go into the house?
Fuck, I was tired.
Tired to the very center of my body and beyond. To that place that goes beyond skin and veins and flesh and bones. The unseen place. Where we keep truths we ignore.
I didn’t want to go inside, not yet.
I headed for the garage, feeling tender and wounded. The familiar smell of grease and leather greeted me as I flipped on the harsh overhead lights. Shit made sense here. If a car hada malfunction, it was just a matter of the right parts, the right tools, and time.
Maybe it was the same with me and my brothers.
We were malfunctioning. All we needed was the right part and the right tools and the right…
Not time. Time wasn’t our friend.
Time was running out.
Alpha ferality bleeding in at the edges of wounds we’d long ignored.
My brain hurt. My damn body too.
The covered-up body of the ‘67 Shelby sat in the back left corner of the large garage.
I needed to fix it soon. Fixing it might make me feel worthwhile.
If I didn’t chase away the dark, I really was going to start breaking things.
Breaking everything maybe.
The whole damn world.
