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Snapping back to the present, he took a swig of his coffee. His clan were gathered around the clearing. Archer and Slade sat across from each other near the firepit, munching on food. A humming Gideon lay flat on his back on the picnic table, his arms crossed over his chest like a corpse at rest. Saxon lounged in a deck chair while Tucker gave him an earful about something as he loomed over him.
The latter wasn’t uncommon. In many ways, watching Tucker rant at Saxon was like seeing a terrier front a bull mastiff. The terrier would yap and yap as it tried asserting its dominance. The mastiff, so sure of its strength and power, would pay the other dog no real mind.
“Morning all,” Teague greeted, descending the steps. He felt his brow furrow as he took in the amount of blood stains on Saxon’s face, hands, and clothes. “Rough night?”
Chewing on toast, Saxon shrugged one shoulder. “Something like that.”
The assassin preferred up-close-and-personal kills, so he occasionally came home in such a state, but not often.
As Teague sat on a log, Tucker turned to him and then gestured at Saxon as he said, “Would you tell him it’s unhygienic to cook while covered in gore.”
Saxon sighed. “I didn’t cook, I toasted a few slices of bread.”
“While you have blood all over you,” Tucker clipped. “Blood that dripped onto your plate.”
“You get agitated by the strangest things.” Saxon bit into his toast. “I don’t get why.”
“There’s nothing strange about wanting you to wash your damn hands before you eat when they look like that. It’s just plain common sense. And how can it not be icky to you to touch food while you have someone else’s blood on your fingers?”
“It’s not like I’m licking it or anything.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Do you even have a point?”
Tucker growled, planting his hands on his narrow hips. “Yes, I do. And you know it.”
A bored sigh slipped out of Saxon. “So determined to be aggressive and imposing. The little man syndrome is at work again.”
“I do not have—” Cutting himself off, Tucker threw his hands up. “You know what? I’m not doing this with you.”
“Okay,” said Saxon with a nod, his voice mild.
Tucker’s expression hardened. “Actually, I am doing this with you.”
“I thought you might,” Saxon muttered.
“Or,” Leo cut in, huddling a bowl of cereal against his chest, “we could all just calm down and use our indoor voices.”
“We’re not indoors,” Archer pointed out, placing his empty plate on the ground beside him.
“Yes, I noticed that,” said Leo, his tone dry. “I’m saying I’d prefer it if we all talked at normal volume.”
Tucker snorted. “It’s not like I’m bellowing or anything, I just . . . Hey, Teague, what’s that on your neck?” He squinted, leaning to the side to get a better look. Moments later, he jerked back like Teague had taken a swipe at him. “Jesus Christ on a cross.”
On the bench, Gideon knifed up. “What? What is it?”
“A wing,” Tucker replied. “But not a wing tattoo. No. Our boy here got branded.”
“Branded?” Slade echoed, standing. “No way.” He crossed to Teague and took a good look at his neck. “Shit, yeah, that’s a brand all right.”
“I take it that Leanne’s demon marked you,” Saxon guessed, clearly displeased.
“Her name is Larkin. And yes, her entity—who, on a side note, is adorably nuts—branded me. But it wasn’t an act of possessiveness.” Still, Teague’s demon felt very much self-satisfied by the knowledge that he now wore her entity’s mark.
“Then why did it do that?” asked Gideon, his nose wrinkling.
Teague stretched out his legs. “To sum up the situation, Larkin’s anchor—a man who is one sorry excuse for a psimate, abandoning her years ago rather than claiming her—has reappeared on the scene. Her demon doesn’t like it. It wants to provoke him so he’ll give it a valid excuse to kill him that won’t rebound back on its lair. And since he has a thing for Larkin . . . ”
“He’ll hate the brand and possibly lose his shit,” Slade finished, retaking his seat.
“That’s what the entity is banking on. It’s a loon. Wants to torture me for fun.” Teague smiled. “It said it likes the shape of my skull.”
Gideon’s mouth curved. “Aw, that’s sweet.”
“Her anchor might come at you,” Saxon said to Teague. “You know that, right?”
Teague hoped the cambion did, because he’d be more than happy to pound the fucker into the ground. “It won’t be anything I can’t handle.”
“Who is he?” asked Leo.
“Holt something.” Teague knocked back the last of his coffee. “He’s a cambion. And a Canadian Prime.”
“I’ll look into him.” Spooning some of his cereal, Leo added, “If I find out anything of interest, I’ll pass it on.”
Teague dipped his chin in thanks and then set his cup down between his legs.
