“Says the guy who apologizes to chairs after bumping into them.”
I glance back at Demo as his face reddens. “I only do it if it’s loud.”
Bricks points at him without looking. “See?”
Despite myself, I laugh. Demo grins like he has accomplished something important. “I’m just saying, Rogue territory has a vibe. No offense, Oisín.”
“None taken.”
“Because you’re not like them.”
The car goes quiet after that, just enough that Demo realizes he may have stepped somewhere sensitive. He sits back slightly, both hands around the coffee cup, guilt already spreading across his face.
I look out the window. “I am like them in some ways.”
Bricks glances at me.
Demo says, “I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” I keep my eyes on the passing buildings. “But I grew up here. I know the bars, the roads, the handoff points, the places cops avoid and the places they pretend not to avoid. I know how Canon’s men talk when they think they’re winningand how they talk when they’re scared. That doesn’t disappear because I wear a different cut now.”
Bricks turns onto a side road, quieter than the main stretch. “You miss it?”
I think about the clubhouse where I learned to disappear. Canon’s office. Varina’s laugh before she learned to sharpen it into a weapon. My mother’s voice in the kitchen, Irish softening the walls for a little while before she left and the Rogues filled every room she left behind.
“I miss pieces of it,” I say. “Not enough to go back.”
Bricks nods once. “That’s usually how it works.”
Demo, apparently incapable of letting seriousness live too long, leans forward again. “I’d miss Tally’s cooking if I ever got exiled.”
“You’d be exiled for talking,” Bricks says.
“Probably. But I’d be hungry.”
The car pulls into a small yard surrounded by tall chain link fences, two Rogues waiting near a battered metal table and a third smoking beside the bay door. None of them are Canon, which helps me breathe easier until I remind myself that Canon not being visible has never meant Canon is absent. Bricks steps out first and then gestures for us to follow, my old family watching me as I approach.
Demo gets out and immediately tries to look intimidating, which results in him standing too straight beside the back door with both hands clasped in front of him like a nervous bouncer at a church dance.
The Rogue at the table notices. “This the new Obsidian guard dog program?”
Bricks shuts his door. “Yeah. We breed them adorable now. Confuses the enemy.”
Demo mutters, “I’m standing right here.”
“I know,” Bricks says. “That’s what makes it funny.”
The paperwork is straightforward at first. Old escort schedule. Shared fuel costs. Two payment transfers already completed and one reimbursement still marked pending because the Rogues have apparently not discovered the thrilling concept of recording dates consistently.
The Rogue, Fenn, keeps glancing at me, rolling his tongue across his top teeth. “Oisín Ward,” he says, making a show of looking at my Obsidian cut. “Or is it Masters now?”
“Oisín is fine.”
Fenn’s mouth tilts. “Bet it is.”
I don’t look at him, only slide the first page across the table. “Your pending reimbursement is wrong.”
Fenn looks down. “No, it isn’t.”
