Reece growled back. Trying to silence the beast’s constant demands and running commentary had landed him in at least half of his current troubles, and the last thing he needed was another fuckup.
Then stop drinking,his beast replied smugly. Reece didn’t bother to credit that with a response.
He left the tavern and wandered down a narrow alley to take a long piss against a wall before making his way slowly through the city. He took a random, circuitous route, watching carefully behind him. But no one was remotely interested in one more rough-looking former soldier, and he finally made his way into his lodgings and up the stairs to his room, grumbling about the waste of his time.
He lit the lamp and opened the note. It was only six words.Usual dock. The Kennel. Usual time.
Fuck. Only a handful of people knew he had grown up near Fish Street Docks. And only one would send this kind of vague passive-aggressive note. Mathos, the bloody busybody who always knew everything about everyone. Mathos who, like all the Hawks, would remember their two o’clock in the morning operations using their Tarasque night vision to guide the squad deep into enemy territory to steal supplies and disrupt encampments.
Not their enemy anymore. Gods. Had they ever been? Or was that all just another lie?
He lay down on the narrow bed, still wearing his clothes. He was far too tall for the bed, and his feet hung over the bottom whatever he did, but he couldn’t be assed with taking off his boots. Or even his coat. Why bother when it was rumpled anyway? The room was cold, and it was an effort to take it off just to put it back on again.
You used to care. Used to take pride in how we looked.
“Yeah, well, it didn’t do us any favors, did it?” he muttered back. How many hours had he spent working on his accent, spending his wages on the right clothes, the right boots, always being the most charming member of the squad? How many hours had he spent making certain that no one would ever look at him and see the half-feral street boy he’d been? Making certain that everyone loved him. Wanted him. And in the end, none of it had meant anything at all.
Helaine was always a bitch. I told you not to touch her. Even Tor told you.
Reece sighed. That much was true. But she was beautiful and refined and everything he’d wanted. He’d loved having her beside him at palace functions, loved having her in his bed, and he’d genuinely thought she’d help the Hawks. That the time they’d spent together, the plans they’d shared, would have counted for something. He hadn’t imagined that she’d smile to his face and then turn around and stab him in the back. Just like his fucking mother.
Mama did the best she—
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
His beast subsided into an annoying string of low mutterings while Reece lay staring at the ceiling ignoring its complaints, and the bells in the distant Nephilim temple rang out the hours.
Finally, it was time. Reece pushed himself off the bed and let himself out of the lodgings. Somewhere more salubrious might have been bothered by the hours he kept, but in this part of Kaerlud, nobody cared.
He didn’t know exactly where he was going, but with Mathos’s sense of humor, it had something to do with dogs.
The docks were still busy—the tides didn’t care what time it was—but the crowd was decidedly disreputable, even by the usual standards of sailors off fishing boats. The stink of decaying fish guts mixed with mud and ancient refuse made his eyes water and burned the back of his throat, despite the thick woolen scarf covering his nose and mouth.
He passed a dingy tavern and then stopped. Went back. Looked at the sign swinging outside again and groaned.The Dog House.Fucking Hilarious.
He pushed his way into the busy taproom. Even a few streets over, the doors would have already been closed for the night, but not here where sailors came and went at all hours.
He glanced around the tavern, raking his eyes over the patrons, and quickly settling on a dark shadow in the corner. The shape was cloaked, face hidden inside a hood, the man barely visible in the dim edges of the room. But Reece would know a member of his squad anywhere, and he knew this man.
It was not, however, Mathos.
He made his way to the table and sat down opposite Tor, who pushed a mug of ale across to him.
He took a sip. Bitter and heavily watered. Not nearly good enough to compensate for dragging him out in the fucking cold. Reece crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re bloody amusing.”
“What?” Tor asked, frowning.
“The Dog House? Really?”
Tor chuckled. “Not my idea.”
“Mathos is a bastard,” Reece grumbled as Tor shrugged. They each took a sip. Gods, it was even worse the second time. Tor wrinkled his nose and pushed his ale away.
“I wouldn’t have thought all this sneaking around was your style,” Reece pointed out. He needed to get whatever this was over with so he could go home and lie awake in the discomfort of his own bed.
Tor watched him for a long moment—assessing—before nodding slightly. “I need your help.”
Reece narrowed his eyes. None of this was remotely reassuring. Not the location, not the time, not the secrecy. And definitely not the concerned look on Tor’s face.
