"You did," he said calmly. "You and Goodfellow and Promise. You've taken what was an iffy situation to begin with and actually managed to make it, if possible, more hazardous."
"All three of us, huh? That's a lot of piss." He was right, though. Between my shortcut, Robin's leg, and Promise's stubborn will, we had managed to screw things up more than a bit. "Hey, I was willing to go in by myself." Unfortunately, being lousy at poker ruled that out. I knew what a pair was… barely. With that in mind, getting in a game with Boaz would be a neat trick. And being on point on this one wasn't an option for Goodfellow now. He could hobble at a fair speed, but when you're running from wolves, fair isn't good enough. Promise had offered to step into his place. Actually, "offered" wasn't quite the word. Promise had laid down the law. She was a full partner too and she was determined to carry her load.
Robin had sat the two of us down and played a hand with us. Before that hand was over, there had been a knocking at the door. George didn't need to be buzzed in on the rare occasion the front-door lock worked. Anyone who saw her would just open the door. It was impressive, uncanny, and, at that moment, a pain in the ass. George had given us all a smile, stood at my side, and said she would just watch. Anything else wouldn't be fair, she'd added cheekily. And Robin, who could say no to anyone and everyone, couldn't say no to her. She had pulled up a chair next to mine, and as we'd played, brown eyes peeked at my cards, warm fingers meandered up and down my arm, and explosive red hair lurked in the periphery of my vision like a field of poppies. Probably the same field of poppies that had taken Dorothy down on her way to see the Wizard.
Needless to say, I hadn't done so hot. At the end of twenty games Robin had decided that when it came to gambling I was unsalvageable, unteachable, and borderline mentally challenged. Promise was a competent player and he'd decided to concentrate his efforts there. Truth was, she'd never be half the player Goodfellow was, but she would pass. More importantly, she was nonhuman. She could walk into that bar at my side and raise fewer eyebrows than I would.
I stood and said seriously, "Don't worry, Nik. I'll take care of your girl. Nothing will happen to her."
"Strange. She said the same of you." From behind his back, he revealed a thick roll of white tape and stretched out a long piece with a ripping sound. "What portion of skin do you mind losing the least?"
I eyed him with suspicion. "This isn't revenge, is it?"
"Vengeance is a petty endeavor." With quick and efficient motions he taped the tiny microphone just below my chest. "Petty," he repeated, slapping on several more completely unnecessary pieces of the adhesive stuff, "but enjoyable. In any event, Promise is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. And she can fly. Can you?"
"She can…" I started, then finished up with a scowl, "You're shitting me, aren't you?"
He put the tape aside and studied his handiwork. Satisfied, he passed me my shirt. "You watch too many movies, little brother."
The shirt was courtesy of Goodfellow. Black silk, it was worlds away from my more casual style, but the scent would match that of the silk tape on my chest.
It should fool curious wolf noses. I buttoned it, lifting my upper lip. "Who said disco was dead?"
"Actually I thought it more of the gigolo genre, but whatever lets you retain your self-respect." He looked me up and down, his own lip twitching slightly. "Such as it is."
Robin's silk shirt was the only exception to my normal look. I was still in my ever-present jeans with my hair pulled back. Hardly charging-for-it wear. "I'm beautiful and you know it." I grinned.
"You have been spending too much time with Goodfellow. Far too much time."
I ended up spending even more time with the puck. We all did. An hour later the four of us sat in a van from Robin's car lot, the same lot where he let us park Niko's ancient car, and went over last-minute details. Niko tested, retested, then tested again the reception of the microphone taped to my chest, while Goodfellow, wrinkling his noble brow in manfully concealed pain, propped his leg on a crate and pillow. I'd already fetched him two aspirin and then a bottle of water. I drew the line at the requested leg massage. "The wolves are looking better and better all the time," I commented to Promise.
"The growling and snapping will certainly be less," she said solemnly, her gaze candidly aimed at Niko.
"I do not growl or snap." Niko didn't need to look up to register her glance. How telling was that? "I am centered and at peace." Deciding there was too much tape muffling the sound quality, he jerked off a piece with no consideration for my pained yelp. "Perfectly at peace."
I rubbed my chest gingerly and let the shirt fall down into place. Maybe it would keep my peaceful brother's hands to himself. "I think we're more than ready here, guys. How about we get the show on the road while I still have some skin left?"
The place was out in Jersey… Newark. And while that made living with yourself harder, it did make parking somewhat easier. The van was parked about two blocks away, close enough for Niko to come to our aid if needed, and far enough not to arouse wolfish suspicions. Humans didn't tend to frequent this type of establishment; when the bouncer at the door has raw-meat breath, rabid eyes, and the personal hygiene of Sasquatch on a low-deodorant day, you tend to move on. It was called a social club, a private one. What that actually meant was a gambling "den" for the unnatural, den being a remarkably apt word, all things considered. Wolves loved to gamble. A chance to throw their money away had tails wagging like nothing else but a good juicy massacre, and this place promised to give them just what they wanted.
Moonshine did look to be your typical wolf hangout. I hadn't been to but the one; still, the pups seemed to have a theme going. Seedy, smelly, and probably wall-to-wall fleas. Absently I scratched my arm in anticipation. A split second later a can of flea and tick spray was slapped in my hand. Always prepared—it wasn't a personal mantra for my brother; it was programmed into his genetic code. Slipping the small canister into the pocket of my jeans, I reined in my usual sarcasm. "Thanks, Cyrano. Last time I was scratching for days." Before Goodfellow could open his mouth, I aimed a warning glare at him. "No smart-ass cracks."
His mouth, already open, snapped shut and he returned the glare with an added helping of wounded hurt that I wasn't buying for a second. Ignoring him, I turned my attention to the shirt. Normally I would've left it hanging loose. I wasn't a tucked-in kind of guy, but for extra security for the microphone, I shoved the silk under the waistband. The shirt wasn't skintight or gigolo tight, but it was snug enough that you couldn't have fitted a weapon beneath it, and I didn't even try. Instead I wore my holster outside the shirt. One side held my Glock, and the other side was modified for my knife. The leather was black, but that hardly had the whole setup blending in with my shirt. It didn't matter. The bouncer would've been more suspicious if I hadn't been carrying. There wasn't a creature alive who would walk into that place unarmed.
Holding out my arm, I said formally, "Is milady ready?"
Amused, Promise tucked a hand into the crook of my elbow. "How gallant you are, sir."
"When you're dressed like you charge five dollars an hour, you have to be," Robin observed caustically, the moratorium on sarcastic comments apparently having passed almost instantaneously.
Never mind, it was his shirt. I gifted him with the finger, then stepped down to the street after Niko slid back the cargo door. Promise followed. Her hair floated loose to her hips, a stained-glass banner in the red and green of the neon lights. Looking over my shoulder at Niko, I taunted lightly, "If we come back engaged, you have no one to blame but yourself."