“I just don’t see how a nice person can be associated with someone like Edward.” Her gaze wandered back to Saint again. “They’re good friends, aren’t they? If he’s so nice, how can he defend someone who’s committed such a terrible crime?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know anything about it,” Judson said, sipping his beer. “I could be a cat burglar. You’d never know.”

  “You’re not light enough of foot,” she deadpanned, and he grinned.

  “What’s happening with the story?”

  She snorted. “Waiting. We ran the initial story, but until I get some kind of official response beyond ‘no comment,’ we can’t do much else. I’m trying to gather more evidence, but it’s slow going. I’ve got to have a denial or a confirmation, or I’ve got nothing.” She spun her glass, frustrated. “How can I get them to admit it?”

  “Are you sure he did it?”

  “Don’t start again, Judd.”

  “I just meant that all the evidence hinges on her story . . .”

  “Yes!” Brooke slammed her open palm onto the table, drawing attention from nearby drinkers. “But that doesn’t make it invalid. What kind of evidence do you want? Do you think they had a magical examiner at the front?”

  “Lower your voice. I’m just saying. It’s his word against hers.”

  “But that doesn’t mean she’s lying!”

  “Not saying it does. Just saying that the burden of proof is greater.”

  “Should we need proof? Why can’t we just accept her word?” It went against every journalistic principle she’d ever had, but this went deeper than a normal story. It was a heinous violation of the worst kind, and she was sick of hearing these stories. It had to stop.

  “Yes, love. We absolutely need proof. Because otherwise, it would open up magic users everywhere to baseless accusation. You know that wouldn’t work. Not everyone is as noble as you.”

  “Don’t tease. I’m serious.”

  “I’m actually serious as well. You want to ascribe good motivations to everyone because you have good motivations. But there are reasons why a ‘victim’ might accuse someone apart from actual experience, despite the damage to her reputation. There have always been people willing to set themselves on fire to watch someone else burn.”

  Brooke leaned forward. “What if it was your mother? Or your sister? Or me? Wouldn’t you want someone to believe me, someone to care enough to find out the facts? To press for justice? Even in the face of impossible odds, wouldn’t you want someone to try to do the right thing?”

  He softened. “Of course I would. But I also don’t want to see you made a fool. This is a big step for you. I’d hate to see you get knocked down.”

  “I’ll take the risk.”

  He lifted his beer bottle to her. “Brooke Amanda Everleigh, defender of victims everywhere. I should get you a cape.”

  She clinked his bottle with her glass. “I’ll take it, in red.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SAINT SIPPED HIS PALE ale. “Heidi, huh? That’s a nice name.”

  The woman giggled and tossed her dark hair. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Please, all my friends call me Saint.”

  Her smile was coy. “Are we friends, Captain?”

  “I think we could be.” He grinned. “Good friends.”

  “Mmm, the best kind,” she purred.

  “Maybe.”

  It was effortless. It had always been easy, getting women into his bed. But since he’d come back from Op’Ho’Lonia a hero, there was no friction to it at all. Well, except the good kind . . . but it took no convincing. Really, where was the challenge? If I want a challenge, he thought as he looked into her mahogany eyes, I’ll challenge Sam to Scrabble or James to Trivial Pursuit. There’s no reason this has to be a game.

  Ms. Everleigh laughed behind him, and her words rang in his head . . . Just think, you could have progeny out there. Why had he assumed that a woman would tell him if she’d gotten pregnant? Really, he didn’t know much about them, nor they about him . . . maybe not even his phone number. It was possible a woman would’ve concealed it or not known how to contact him, and the thought bothered him.

  “Hello? Saint?” Heidi was watching him, her brows drawn together in concern.

  He stroked the back of her hand, resting on the bar top. “Sorry. I have a lot on my mind tonight.” He smiled: the heated smile James said melted women’s pants right off. “I’ll be more attentive.”

  Leaning into him so he could see down her shirt, she whispered into his ear. “I think I could take your mind off your troubles.”

  “I’d let you try, if you wanted . . .”

  “How generous of you.”

  “I’m a generous guy.”

  “I’m counting on it,” she said, sliding off her barstool. Heidi took his hand and wove between the tables and the couples intertwined on the dance floor. “My place or yours?”

  “Yours, beautiful.” The answer rolled out of his mouth as he caught sight of Everleigh checking her phone again. I’d bet my TV she’s thinking about Oliver. Meanwhile, he was getting tugged out of the building by a woman whose name he barely remembered. Hannah? No, Heidi. A woman he might impregnate tonight, even if it was by accident.

  Another little kid, running around without a dad, just like he had. Another kid like Olly, whose mother would bear the burden of raising him alone, unable to relax on a Saturday night because she was constantly thinking about him. He never wanted to put a woman in that position.

  “Wait, Heidi.”

  She pivoted on the sidewalk, turning a dazzling smile on him.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling up to this tonight.”

  She leaned in for a sultry kiss, her hands sliding over his chest. “Really?”

  His body began to argue with him, citing her perfume (nice, not too heavy), her hair (silky, long), and her chest (its comments about this were too explicit to be shared). Maybe he could just make her happy and leave . . . Was that offensive? Would that hurt her feelings? He certainly didn’t want her to think it was her; it wasn’t. It was 100 percent Everleigh’s fault for planting these thoughts, these doubts in his head. It’s not enough that she screws up my life at work? Now she’s going after my personal life, too?

  Sighing, he reached up and encircled her wrists, gently pulling them away from his body.

  “I’m sorry, I really am. I think I’m coming down with something. I don’t want to make you ill.”

  She pursed her painted lips, a light scowl on her face. He tucked her arm into his.

  “Let me walk you back to the bar. I’m sure a beautiful woman like you can find someone else to entertain you tonight . . .”

  “I wanted you to entertain me.”

  “Another time, perhaps.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, when his phone rang. Saved by the technology. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this, it’s . . .” He stifled a groan. “It’s my gestator.”

  Heidi blinked. “Your what?” He held up a finger to signal “just a minute.”

  “Hi, Calynda.”

  “Baby.” She was crying. “Can you come pick me up?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Gary took the money you gave me and took off. I don’t have a key to get into our apartment, and the manager said he can’t let me in unless I’m on the lease. I don’t have anywhere to go tonight.” There was a tremor in her voice, but he was pretty sure it was panic and not withdrawal.

  Saint bit back his “I told you so” and kicked the sidewalk unconsciously. “Where are you?”

  “112th and Market.”

  That’s a shitty neighborhood. She can’t stand there alone. “Okay. Hang on, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  He hung up and leaned over, putting his hands on his knees for support. Being upside down helped. His head might as well match his world at the moment.

  “Did you call her your . . . gestator?” Heidi’s tone was thick with judgment.

  “Yes. As in, the person who gestated me. She didn’t mother me in any sense of the word. I’ve gotta go, love. Let’s get you back to the bar.” He caught her arm and led her back toward the Rusty Nail until she gently pulled away from him.

  “That’s okay. I think I’ll . . . go home.”

  “Can I call you a ride?”

  “No, I’m good. You go.”

  He nodded, then gave her a lingering kiss on her made-up cheek. “Sorry.”

  CALYNDA WAS SHIVERING, coatless in the late Tenth Month chill. “Baby, thank you, thank you for—”

  He held up a hand to silence her. He was too tired for her fawning. He tucked his coat around her shoulders and led her back to the train station.

  “Are we going to your house?” she asked, the hope painfully obvious in her voice.

  “No. I’ll get you a hotel room for tonight, and we’ll get you back into your old apartment tomorrow.”

  “What? Why?” She leaned closer to him. “I’ve been dying to see your new house.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “But why?”

  Saint gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to tell her the truth, that he didn’t want the space polluted by her. That she was toxic, and he wanted his home untouched by her.

  “Not tonight.”

  “But baby . . .”

  “Stop calling me that, Calynda. You can’t come to my house. You haven’t earned that privilege yet.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing until they said their goodbyes at the door of room 104 of the Sleep-the-Night-Away Hotel. Saint’s last thought before he exited the building was that most of the people he’d passed didn’t look like they’d be doing much sleeping that night, and he wasn’t sure if he envied them or not.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TWO DAYS LATER, SAINT got a text.

  Brooke: I am going to drop Oliver at your house on Wednesday.

  Brooke: What time shall I come?

  Saint: You’ve decided to trust me? I’m honored.

  Brooke: What. time. you. smooth-brained. imbecile?

  Saint: 5:15. You were thirty minutes late last time, so that should get you here by 5:45.

  That pissed her off, he thought, chuckling, as the dots pulsed on the screen longer than usual. Just because she’s being insulting doesn’t mean I have to be. I should take the high road. His mum would definitely not approve of how he’d treated her so far.

  Brooke: I’ll be there at 5:45, Captain.

  Saint: Have him bring a coat.

  SAINT’S DOORBELL RANG at 5:56. Well, only eleven minutes late this time. That’s an improvement over thirty . . . He opened the door. Oliver was in tears, and Brooke was pink-cheeked and furious. She looked more frustrated than a surgeon without a scalpel.

  “Hello, Captain. I apologize for our tardiness. I’ll be back at seven to get him.”

  “You said he could come to our house. You promised,” Oliver sniffled.

  “For the king’s sake, Oll . . .” Brooke sighed, then turned to Saint. “Sorry. Thanks.”

  Saint’s phone flashed to life, and he tipped it up to see who it was. Calynda Huxley. He rejected the call. “All right, Private Oliver. Stand at attention.”

  He hesitated a moment, then threw his small shoulders back, and his head snapped up to meet Saint’s gaze.

  “Good. About face.”

  “That means turn around,” Brooke whispered, and he did. Saint put his hands on his charge’s shoulders. “Forward march.”

  “Where are you taking him?” Brooke’s tone was defensive again, and Saint sighed. Someone had done a number on this woman’s trust; what wasn’t his fault was quickly becoming his problem. He spoke slowly, enunciating every word.

  “We are going to play basketball at my gym. It is just down the street. It has a café, where we will eat when we are done.”

  She dug in her purse and came up with a twenty-dollar bill. “There you go.”

  He ignored her outstretched hand, but softened his tone slightly. “The program gives me a stipend for activities.”

  “I insist. We don’t need charity.”

  Based on what I’ve seen? You definitely do. “I’m not allowed to accept gifts. Didn’t you read the instructions?”

  He started Olly down the sidewalk again, and Brooke followed.

  “Yes, I did read the instructions. It didn’t say anything about not taking money for food for my kid. It said that you couldn’t accept gifts in order to curry favor. Since I have zero interest in your favor, I see no discrepancy.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” He took the money and shoved it in his front jeans pocket. “See you later, Mum.”

  “Text me the address, and I’ll pick him up there.” She was turning to go back to the train, and they paused at the intersection. “Goodbye, love,” she said, ruffling Olly’s hair. He turned his face away, crossing his arms over his belly halfheartedly. She was obviously uncomfortable leaving him, and Saint didn’t know if it was his fault or Olly’s.

  Leave already. He’ll be fine. He forced himself to slow his breathing, knowing that his tension would just add to hers.

  “Say goodbye to your mum, Oliver.”

  “Bye.” His voice was dry ice, painful.

  Watching the resignation and humiliation on her face, Saint felt an inkling of empathy for her, just an internal pinch of emotion. She wasn’t a bad mum; he’d seen some of those. Mums who couldn’t draw boundaries or put their foot down. That wasn’t Everleigh. She turned and walked quickly down the sidewalk, swiping at her face, which he guessed was now stained with tears.

  With a sigh, Saint got Oliver moving again toward the gym.

  “What was that all about, mate?”

  “She broke her promise. It’s not fair.” He wiped his running nose on his coat sleeve. At least she’d remembered to send him with a jacket. “She said you could come to our house. Now she went to Grandma’s without me.”

  “Sounds pretty disappointing.” Teach your mentee to identify their own emotions with a healthy dose of empathy: there is power in naming something, in being understood. He had the manual memorized by now.

  “What’s that?”

  “Disappointing? When it’s not what you wanted or expected to happen.”

  “Yes. It’s dizabointing.”

  Saint bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t smile, nodding his head. “I get it. I was hoping your mum would stay, too.”

  “You were?” Olly seemed surprised. “She said you don’t like her because she tells the truth.”

  That erased all his empathy. “Did she say why she had to change our plans?”

  “Yes. Gran’s moving away. We’re not going to see her anymore. Mum has to help.” Yikes. Another babysitter gone for a single mum . . .

  “Oh, that’s sad. But it sounds like Gran really needed her help, eh? You and I can hang out together for a bit while she takes care of that. You’d have likely been bored if she took you with her.”

  Olly let out a thin sigh. “I guess.” He hurried to match Saint’s longer stride. “Does the café have burgers?”

  “You know it.” He held up his hand for a high five, and Olly jumped for it. Then Saint reached into his pocket to retrieve her twenty dollars. “Give this back to your mum for me, will you, mate? Thanks.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BROOKE HURRIED DOWN the sidewalk in her black skirt suit on Friday. She was nearly to the courthouse, but her high heels weren’t cooperating. The polygraph was set to start in ten minutes, and she wasn’t even in the building yet. She checked her watch again, willing time to please slow down and pulled at her coat to wrap her neck more tightly. It was definitely turning colder. Her pea coat needed to last her at least one more year . . . It had been missing a button when she pulled it out of storage (dumb mice), but she’d sewn on another one that was close enough. It was the right size and color, but it had four holes instead of two. You’d never notice if you didn’t look closely, she told herself. It was still going to bother her.

  When she found the room, the security guard was just closing the door.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” she whispered loudly, and the black man paused, then smiled as she squeezed by him inside. Brooke collapsed into the only available chair, front row center.

  “Knew you’d be late,” Saint whispered. A woman sitting on his other side, dressed entirely in black with long black hair, raised an eyebrow at them both.

  Brooke said nothing, her chest still heaving. She was afraid her voice would be too loud in the quiet room if she tried to bicker with him now. She’d come up with something good and zing him later. When you least expect it, Captain Sinner. Like a Taser in a dark alley. She glanced around, nodding to reporters from a few other outlets, who nodded back. She didn’t know who the rest of the people in the room were . . . interested observers, perhaps? More palace staff? Saint was the only one in uniform. It looked good on him. Of course it does.

  “Good morning, we’re going to get started now.” The tan-skinned man put a hand on his chest. “I’m Silas Greene, and I’ll be administering the test today. This is Mrs. Greta Burnham, and I’ll be asking her some questions regarding the incident that allegedly took place last year. The first few questions will be to establish a baseline response.”

  A thought occurred to Brooke, and she leaned over to Saint. “Did you save this seat for me?”

  He nodded, then whispered back. “It’s easier to gloat if you’re right next to me.”

  Donkey.

  Greta sat in the chair, and a blue bubble formed around it, wavering slowly, wobbling, a delicate spherical stream moving around her. It was a little unnerving; Brooke wasn’t used to being able to see the magic that surrounded them and made their electronics possible. Unlike Veil Technicians, she couldn’t see or feel it, ever. Some people were gifted with a natural ability to form a relationship with the magic; receptiveness, an innate capability. Since it was lucrative work, she probably should’ve tried to develop one anyway, but it wasn’t really that interesting to her. Science wasn’t her thing.

 

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