“God … I think I needed you to say that.”
He shot another glare over. “You doubted it? Like, ever?”
Trez went across and parked it on one of the stools at the counter. “There are limits.”
iAm had to laugh. “You don’t say.”
Going to the cabinets on the left, he took out two deep-bellied bowls, then sprang one of the drawers and got some soup spoons. Ladling the stew in, he served his brother first.
Trez tried some and moaned. “This is amazing.”
When iAm gave the shit a taste, he had to agree, but he kept that to himself. Pride was an unattractive trait, even if it was well-placed.
“What are you going to do about the Chosen?” iAm asked.
Trez’s shrug was just a liiiiiittle too nonchalant. “Nothing.”
“Not sure it’s going to work out like that for you.”
Trez stared into the stew. “She’s just one more reason to stay on the outside. Not that I needed it.”
“She says you told her everything. That right?”
It was a long while before Trez nodded slowly. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
“What exactly did you keep to yourself.”
Those black eyes lifted after a while. “Seconds?”
iAm snagged the now-empty bowl and brought it over for a redo.
“I didn’t tell her how bad it’s going to get,” Trez said softly as more stew was delivered.
“So you lied.”
There was another long silence. “Yeah. I did.”
Because after the queen was done eliminating their parents? The tribe was going to come after iAm. He was the next rung on the ladder of coercion because they couldn’t touch Trez, after all. He had to be in one piece.
iAm found himself nodding. “Probably a good move.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
It was easy to think of God while watching the sun rise over the Hudson River.
As Sola sat on the empty terrace of Assail’s glass house, she stared across the cold, sluggish water. Little flashes of peach and yellow skimmed over the icy expanse as, across the way, that great orange orb crested over the skyscrapers of downtown.
She had made it out of that prison, she thought for the hundredth time. And whatever scars might have formed on the inside of her, her body was intact, her mind functional, and her safety, at least in the short term, assured.
Thinking back to all those prayers, she couldn’t believe they’d been granted. Desperation had made her utter the words, but she hadn’t really expected anyone to be listening.
The question now was … did she keep her side of the bargain?
Man, it would have been so much easier if an angel with wings had come down and freed her, magically depositing her here. Instead, she’d done the dirty work herself, Assail had been on cleanup, and one of those fierce cousins of his had been a chauffeur for the five-hour trip back to sanity. Oh, and then there had been all those people in that facility.
Mere mortals touched by the hand of God? Or a series of random events that just happened to roll out as they did? Was the fact that her life had been saved a case of divine intervention … or of no more significance than one bingo ball getting picked over another?
A shallow fishing boat puttered into view, its sole passenger steering the outboard motor from the back, controlling speed and direction.
Pulling the heavy duvet even closer around her body, she thought about all the things she’d done, starting when she was just nine or ten. She’d begun picking pockets, trained by her father, and moved up to more complex theft with his help. Then, after he’d gone to prison and she and her grandmother had moved here to the States, she’d gotten a cashier’s job at a restaurant and tried to support them both. When that had proved too difficult, she’d put her experience to good use and survived.
Her grandmother had never asked any questions, but that had always been the way—her mother had been the same, except when it came to Sola’s involvement in the life. Unfortunately, the woman hadn’t lived long enough to make much of an impact, and after she was gone, the husband and daughter she had left behind had become thick as thieves.
Natch.
Sooner or later, she’d been bound to get caught. Hell, her father had been even better at it than she was, and he’d died in prison.
Picturing him the last time she’d seen him, she remembered him at his trial, dressed in prison garb, handcuffed. He had barely looked at her, and not because he was ashamed or worried about getting emotional.
She’d been no longer useful to him at that point.
Rubbing her eyes, she thought it was asinine to still be hurt by that. But after spending all her time trying to make him proud, get some approval, find any kind of connection, she had realized that to him, she was just another tool in his black-market workplace.