Dreamwalker (Stormwalker #5)(7)

The explanation wasn’t a lie, strictly. Nash sensed there was more to it than that, but other than giving Mick a sharp stare, he didn’t argue.

“You need to control her, Janet,” Nash said, switching his gaze to me.

“Sure,” I said. “Because she listens to me so well.”

“Those robbers are wanted in connection with a lot crimes,” Nash went on. “But a good lawyer might be able to help them get Gabrielle charged for assault—and maybe you and Mick too.”

Possibly. However, I doubted those tough guys would want to admit that a small young woman like Gabrielle had singlehandedly kicked their asses.

Nash glanced back to Emmett’s men. “You say they work for Smith?” he asked me.

“They do,” I said. “But they’re completely human.”

“Good. I’ll take them in.” Nash wanted in the worst way to arrest Emmett and make him pay for the many problems he’d caused. Nash didn’t give a damn whether Emmett was the most powerful mage in the world or a petty crook, he wanted to arrest the man and give him hell.

Mick helped Nash load the driver and Emmett’s minions into the SUV, the men now locked into steel handcuffs. I wondered if Emmett would send a crack lawyer to get them out of custody, or whether he’d abandon them. Emmett seemed the type to discard people when they were no longer useful to him.

Nash drove away, and I started inside to talk to Gabrielle.

Before I even made it to the front door, Mick’s cell phone buzzed. He answered it, an eye on me, then came alert. “Sure, we’ll be right there.”

I had a feeling my date night with Mick had just been blown even more to hell. “What?” I asked him.

“That was Barry. He says he has a little problem in the bar. Wants us to check it out.”

Mick was already striding across the dirt parking lot that separated my hotel from the Crossroads Bar. I let out an exasperated breath, balled my fists, and trudged after him.





Chapter Three

Barry Dicks owned and ran the Crossroads Bar, which had been open since before I’d bought the neighboring derelict hotel and restored it. Barry was a biker, and bikers liked his place, which was designated neutral ground. Riders came from all over the West and Southwest to stop at Barry’s for a beer and to take a load off.

Barry kept a shotgun behind the bar for any troublemakers and could handle most situations. The only time he asked for Mick’s or my help was when he had supernatural trouble.

The clientele eyed Mick and me sharply as we walked in. The bar was crowded tonight, the tables and barstools plus the pool tables in the back filled with men and women in leather and denim, most of them armed with pistols, knives, or both. The state we lived in didn’t ban handguns in public—individual businesses could forbid them on the premises but they didn’t have to. Barry didn’t bother, knowing his customers would bring their weapons anyway.

The regulars recognized us and either gave us nods or simply went back to what they’d been doing. The strangers stared at us a little longer but kept any hostility to themselves. Mick looked like the biggest, baddest biker of them all, and few wanted to mess with him.

Barry and his assistant bartender were pulling beers and pouring whiskey quickly, responding to the crowd. Barry grabbed bottles of the beer Mick and I liked and thumped them in front of us as we approached the bar.

“Those guys at the back pool table,” Barry said as he opened my bottle for me. “Something wrong with them.”

Mick yanked the cap off his bottle with his strong fingers. “We’ll check it out.”

“Thanks. Beers are on me.” Barry, looking relieved, turned away to refill a beer mug from the tap.

Mick can move quickly and at the same time look like he’s not the least bit interested in where he’s going. He’d made his way through the crowd to the pool tables before I could catch up to him. I wove around clumps of guys, most of whom left me alone. The regulars knew by now that men who messed with me usually ended up on fire or yelling in pain or running away very fast. Those who didn’t know me took their cue from the wary looks of the others.

Mick, in the way only Mick could, had ingratiated himself into a game at the pool table two over from the guys Barry wanted us to check out. Mick already had the man and woman at the table he’d taken over laughing with him.

I didn’t recognize the couple, but pretty soon Mick was best friends with them. Monica and John were from Barstow and had come to visit some friends in Flat Mesa. Monica and John were pretty cool people, it turned out, and soon we were discussing motorcycles and the various modifications Mick had made to ours.