Gathering Storm (2 page)

He thought about Rystrome
and knew it seemed silly to use the term "innocent" when describing
someone who was also an assassin, but the young soldier left that
impression. He had taken the job so that he could educate his
children and buy his wife a flute to replace the one that had been
taken from her. Like all of them, he had stories to tell about
Laiwynn ruthlessness, which meant that he also had good reasons to
hate the Laiwynn.

That zealot, Rothesay, was
so obsessed with making sure all Laiwynn were exterminated that the
deaths incurred in pursuit of that goal were shoved into the
"acceptable loss" column and forgotten. At least by him.

Since none of the twenty
had returned, they didn't know any more about how to prepare for a
mission than they had the first time. Nothing had been gained.
Nothing had been learned. And a lot of lives had been
lost.

They had speculation about
what
may
have
happened, but no facts.

Archer was the sort who
dealt in facts and didn't have much patience with other modalities.
Belief in gods? Until there was evidentiary proof, there was
nothing to discuss. Sun coming up every day? The only thing that
could be said with certainty was that "sunrise" had been happening
lately in cosmic terms. Life after death? Don't be
ridiculous.

PREFACE II

Dunkilly, Ireland

Glendennon Catch caught
the eye of the bartender who simply pointed toward a back corner.
He couldn't see what the man pointed to, but he nodded his thanks
and began making his way toward the rear of the pub.

He wound through a crowd
of people standing, holding glass mugs and talking loudly to be
heard over the music. When he was closer to the back, a rear corner
snug came into view. It was close to a window so there was enough
light to see, even with the thick haze of smoke hanging in the air,
that the bartender had been right in surmising that he was looking
for Z Team.

There they were, the
farthest thing from inconspicuous. Glen couldn't begin to guess how
they had managed to be successful vampire slayers when everything
about them drew attention and broadcasted vibes of
this-is-your-last-chance-to-run. It was a message that floated
around them like a diaphanous cloud of warning.

The four of them fit
comfortably in a snug designed for eight. That was partly because
of their size and partly because they had a casual way of draping
arms and legs so that they took up more space than was normally
allotted for a civilized person, even a large one. The posturing
also communicated disdain for established notions of propriety.
Glen knew instinctively that even the word "propriety" would make
Black Swan's infamous misfits laugh out loud.

One of them was wearing a
sleeveless shirt that had once been a denim jacket. His left arm
had been transformed into a tattooed sleeve by an intricately inked
mural of muted colors. Bare biceps seemed out of place in a part of
the world where it was brittle-dick cold outside, but Glen supposed
that if he'd made
that
much of an investment in ink he might want to show it off,
too.

Glen's initial impression
of the guy sitting next to Sleeve was that he should have the
nickname, Dark, or Black. He wore black jeans, a black metal band
shirt that was probably vintage, maybe collectable, and his spiky
hair was so blue black it had to have been dyed that color. He was
eye-catching, all that black paired with eyes so pale he could
almost get away with going undercover as a vamp. He wasn't wearing
eyeliner, but the contrast between his ice-color irises and those
thick ebony lashes made his eyes pop in a dramatic way that
probably drew interest from a lot of babes.
The Black Knight.
Glen smiled a
little to himself, enjoying the company of his own voice in his
head and his own offbeat sense of humor.

The third wore a plain
gray long sleeve tee that covered his upper body, but Glen could
see black ink climbing out of the neck of the guy's shirt, stopping
just below his pronounced jaw line. Either tribal pattern or angel
glyph. Hard to tell with just snake tails in view. He had a serious
case of bed head going, maybe by design, maybe not, and one eyebrow
that was raised and had been since he'd noticed Glen standing there
watching them.

He said something to the
others. Then the fourth, the one facing away with one long arm
draped over the back of the snug, turned to look at Glen over his
shoulder. That shift revealed elfin ears outlined by light brown
hair with titian streaks. Same curl as Sir Hawking. Had to be
Torrent Finngarick.

Somehow they looked exactly
the way Glen had expected them to look. Hard. Tough. And like they
belonged together. He was thinking,
so
they're Black Swan knights with a little bit of a nasty reputation.
They put their pants on one leg at a time just like me.
Right?

As internal pep talks go,
it was adequate, but he just wasn't feeling it. Even so, he decided
to stick with Plan A, which was taking life straight ahead, one
step at a time. Glen had a reputation of his own for being
easy-going, but he made an exception for passive aggressive
nonsense. He didn't like it, didn't like people who habitually
avoided the front door, and didn't mind letting his irritation with
bullshit bubble over if it got to be too much.

Plan A it was. It meant
walking straight up to them, stating his business, hoping for the
best, but being prepared for the worst. That was the thought
bouncing around in his mind as he observed their reactions to
seeing him approach.

Once he was standing over
them, he looked around the table and said, "I'm Glendennon Catch."
Then he zeroed in on Torn. "Sorry for your loss, Sir Finngarick."
He said "Sir" quietly enough so that only they heard him, but they
got the message. Sir was a small little honorific that could also
serve as code, as good as a secret handshake. "The office sent me
with a message from the HR department."

They left him standing
there for a minute without saying anything or changing expression.
They just stared.

It was a thinly disguised
intimidation strategy to get him to reveal nervousness, timidity,
or some other weakness that would register as a flaw in their eyes.
As tactics went, it was almost sure to get results, but not with
somebody who had inherited a dominant werewolf gene. Glen could
stand there all day breathing normally without flinching or looking
away, patiently waiting for them to get tired of practicing Mind
Fuck 101.

Finally, the big guy with
the glyphs crawling up his neck grinned, showing dimples that
seemed entirely out of place against the persona he'd so carefully
crafted. "So go ahead and deliver your memo, Sweet Cheeks. We're
listening."

The other three chuckled
softly without taking their eyes off of him. Glen laughed openly
and good-naturedly, but let the sound trail off and end in a
low-level growl, incongruent with the smile on his face. The growl
wasn't loud enough to draw attention from the wake-goers, but it
was definitely heard by Z Team. They all sat up a little straighter
and took another look at the kid. He had their interest, but that
was worlds away from respect.

Looking at Glyphs, he said, "My briefing
didn't mention that any of you are hard of hearing. If you want to
call me by a name, it's Glen."

Finngarick's blue eyes
twinkled in a way that brought Sir Hawking to mind, while the other
two laughed at the fact that Glyphs had been challenged by a kid
who was years away from growing into his lanky, big-boned
frame.

"Long way to deliver a
message. Would you no' have a pint with us then? Glen." He reached
out with a long leg, put the toe of his scuffed boot through the
leg brace of an unoccupied chair, pulled it closer to the snug, and
waved toward it in a gesture of invitation. "We're no' much on
formalities. Call me Torn."

Glen nodded then looked at
the others. Torn pointed at the guy with the sleeves and said,
"This is Gunnar. That's Raif." He raised his chin in the direction
of 'black knight'. "The fella with the questionable personality is
Bob."

"Gunnar. Raif, Torn, And
Bob. No way."

Finngarick's eyes twinkled
with that special sparkle that had elf written all over it. "Aye.
Make no mistake. The bugger’s name is Bob."

Glen shook his head.
"Let's rename him."

Finngarick looked at Bob
and then back at Glen. "What we have here, gentlemen, is a cool,
gloomy Irish day with no place to go and no' a thin' to do other
than have another pint. So I say we should try playin’ Glen’s game.
What would you be callin’ the man if ‘twas up to you, young
emissary?" Glen shrugged. "Come now. No ideas?"

"Well, yeah, I sort of named him in my head
on the walk across the bar."

"Pub," Torn corrected.

"Yes. Pub. Sorry."

Bob raised both brows. "I,
for one, cannot wait to hear what
you
named me in your head on your
walk across the... pub."

Glen looked at him with speculation trying
to decide whether or not to tell the truth. "Glyphs."

While Bob studied Glen,
his three teammates studied Bob in turn, like they were trying it
on for size. Bob lowered his eyebrows and rolled his big shoulders
in approval.

Finally Torn nodded as if
to say he'd reached a conclusion. "Right you are. Now that you
point it out, ‘tis plain as day he's no' a Bob. Glyphs suits him
fine. Congratulations. You just nicknamed a knight. No’ an easy
thin’ to do. Had he no’ liked it, well, shall we say ‘tis good he
did."

Torn Finngarick called for
a Guinness Extra Stout to be served to Glen, who wasn't used to
alcohol at all and certainly wasn't ready for Irish black beer. He
took a manly mouthful, thinking he had arrived, and promptly spewed
it all over Torn in a spectacular demonstration of human fountain
power. The other three members of Z Team laughed so hard they had
to wipe tears.

"… almost as funny as the
night that Chokarzi stripper puked half a gallon of half-digested
Cuervo in your face. In the middle of a lap dance."

Glen borrowed a wet bar
towel and offered it to Finngarick with a blush. "I'd offer to
clean you up, but your file says you’re heterosexual."

Torn took the towel without a word, but with
a glint of amusement in his eyes. When he was as clean as was
possible without a shower and fresh clothes, he handed the towel to
Glen. "Go get yourself somethin' else. Drinks are on me. Milk
maybe?" he teased.

When Glen returned with a
mug of root beer, no one asked him what was in the glass. Torn
simply motioned to the chair. “So. They record sexual preference in
our files, do they?”

Glen sat, but didn’t
answer that question. "You're needed at Jefferson Unit. You're to
accompany me to Fort Dixon after the funeral. Your things are being
gathered and moved as we speak."

As Glen looked from one to another, he saw
no discernible reaction. They were a cool bunch. He'd give them
that.

Glyphs shrugged, saying,
"New York's no worse than any other place. Maybe better than
some."

Finngarick looked at Glen
like he was a lab specimen on a microscopic slide. "Would you be
happenin' to know why we're
needed
so urgently?"

Glen thought about it for a minute and
decided there was no reason to withhold the truth. "Yes."

A ghost of a smile seemed
to cross Finngarick's handsome elven face. "And will you be sharin'
with us then?"

"Sorry. No."

Torn glanced at his teammates as if the four
could communicate telepathically. "See. The thin' is, we're
accustomed to hearin' The Order needs to sweep us further under the
rug. No' brin' us into the light. We would no' be the least
surprised if you came to say we're bein' transferred to Antarctica.
But this? Naturally we're curious, you understand."

"Of course I understand. But I'm not at
liberty to say."

Torn nodded thoughtfully.
"Well, then. Might you be at liberty to say why you, in particular,
were sent to escort us?"

It took Glen less than a
second to process whether there could be ramifications to divulging
that information. "The Jefferson Unit sovereign is retiring. I'm
being given a try-out for his job. He sent me to get you." Z Team
stared at Glen as if they were waiting for the punch line. Finally,
he said, "No. Really."

Gunnar cleared his throat.
"So. You're saying that, at some point, we could be calling you
boss?"

Glen responded with a
shit-eating grin so big, it begged for retaliation. Gunnar swept
his gaze around the snug before it settled on Glen with a
disturbing mix of challenge, mischief and amusement.

Torn leaned forward.
"Seems we have limited time for the application of a right proper
hazin' then, Glen."

Four sets of eyes darted to the movement in
Glen's throat when he swallowed.

CHAPTER 1

"'Tis a good thin’ that
Stormy and I put the bad in Bad Company, else the two of us might
be intimidated by unhappy mates standin' o’er us with mean faces
and hands on delectably curvy hips."