Page 2 of Flight of the Omega

“Oh,” Burr said, his brows lifting and his brown eyes getting a bit wider. “Well. The boss’s boy is supposed to be here for a visit.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack said, crossing his arms. A frown marred his face. The last thing they needed was some spoiled, rich brat down on the farm while they tried to get ready for the Rose Plate. He’d just get in the way. “And what’s he doing here?”

“Well,” Burr drawled, “his daddy thinks he should be in the race.”

Jack huffed. Sure. Didn’t all rich folks think that way? That they were exceptionally talented or that their kids were something special at least. He doubted Mr. Crane had an ounce of talent anywhere in him, and the brat probably wasn’t anything special either.

A thought struck him. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with the strange stork that was running around the yard last night, would it?”

Burr started. “Strange stork?” he asked.

“Yeah. I thought we had a runner, so I roped the bird. But it isn’t one of ours.”

Burr’s eyes widened. “What’s it look like?”

Jack tilted his head. “Tall. Real tall. Pretty blue—cerulean, almost.”

The color drained straight out of Burr’s bronzed face. “Where’d you say you put him?”

“Huh?” Jack spun on his heels as Burr charged by him. “Out in lockup there—figured we’d have the vet down to—”

But Burr was gone, rounding the corner, his footsteps fading. A moment later, Jack listened to the doors squeal and slam shut again. “Huh,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. “That was weird.”

Well, there wasn’t much use dwelling on it, he thought. Maybe Burr had heard something about a missing bird. With that in mind, he continued to the mess hall.

The mess was a large, cafeteria-style room, and Duckie, the cook, ran the show. Predictably, Duckie was already hard at work, laying out a veritable feast for the hands before they went to the stables. Right then and there, they were loading buckets of oatmeal into the warmers.

“Morning,” Jack said as he approached, boots thumping on the red oak floorboards.

“Hey-o,” the stout cook said, saluting him as they spun around. Despite their name, Duckie was a hundred percent human—not a drop of bird blood in them. Not that most people would ask; in Jack’s experience, most folks were pretty sure the so-called angelics—hybrids—were just a rumor. “Almost got breakfast on.”

“Take your time,” Jack advised, then watched as they toddled back to the kitchen. When he was sure Duckie was gone, he peered over the warmers.

“Hey!” Duckie called, and Jack drew his hand away from one of the lids. “You stay outta the food, you hear?!”

“I wasn’t touching nothing!” Jack called back. He swiveled his head when the doors to the mess banged open and in stomped a tall, willowy boy, dressed in what looked like an expensive polo and equally pretentious slacks. A storm cloud of an expression marred his face. Burr trailed after him, wringing his hands.

“You,” the boy snarled, and Jack pointed to himself, blinking. He turned to face Burr and the newcomer more fully.

“What’s all this about?” he asked. “What do y’all want with me?”

The boy’s face contorted with whatever acidic syllables he wanted to spit, but Burr laid a hand on his shoulder. That got a look of sheer horror from the boy, whose golden eyes widened, flashing with indignation.

“This here is Mr. Crane’s boy,” Burr said in his low, rolling timbre. “Mr. Crane’s asked us to look after him real good.”

Jack quirked a brow. He folded his arms and leaned back against the table. He was mostly focused on Burr, but he didn’t miss the way the Crane boy watched him. Whatever he was feeling, whatever he was thinking, it softened his features, so much so he looked almost pretty, his skin taking on the faintest blue tint in the morning light cascading through the bank of windows at the east end of the hall.

“All right,” Jack said, unfolding.

“All right?” the Crane boy spat, anger making him sharp again. “No, not all right, you lout—”

Burr clenched his fist on the spitfire’s shoulder, eliciting a wince from the boy, who paused mid-rant. “This here is Jack,” Burr explained, like he was talking to a particularly dense three-year-old. “He takes care of the flock.”

The boy paled visibly. He turned his piercing gaze on Jack, a snarl curling his lips. “Really?” he asked. “You let that oaf—”

“Jack’s the best with the birds,” Burr said, his tone a warning not to trifle with him. “Regular Alerian whisperer.”

The Crane boy let his gaze bounce back to Jack, like he didn’t believe Burr or something.

“What’s the old man want him to do?” Jack asked, more to Burr than the boy, as he turned about and helped himself to the bacon, singeing his fingers as he did so. He could basically hear Duckie scolding him in his head—serves ya right.

“Riding,” the boy said without hesitation, although he didn’t sound too enthused.

Jack turned back, looking the imperious brat up and down. Jockeys were usually small and light—not so tall—but he supposed the boy’d do all right at it. He met that golden gaze, noting how the kid didn’t look enthused either. He looked almost glum. “You got a name?” He almost tackedbratonto the end of it, because the kid was punching all his buttons with that smug smirk alone.

“Julius Peregrine.” He said the last bit with a haughty accent, and Jack snorted.

“JP for short,” Burr said, and Jack grinned as the brat snarled up at Burr.

“Well, JP,” he drawled, “be seeing ya around.”