False Gods (Sins of the Father 2)

“Mason,” Sterling hissed, pulling on my arm, forcing me down again. “What the hell are you doing?”

My lips drew back in anger as I verified the voice’s owner. “I fucking knew it,” I growled.

There, walking out of the Whateley house, wearing casual clothes and an easy grin, was Quilliam J. Abernathy.

27

The blood rose to my temples, warming me more than usual against the cool Silver Lake air. It was something about my nephilim genetics, maybe. I was, just as likely, extra pissed about seeing Quill again. The fucker did try to make both me and Florian explode, after all, and he directly put a damper to my master plan of disappearing from arcane society altogether.

My shoes scraped against the asphalt as Sterling held me back, grabbing me by the scruff yet again.

“Let me at him.” My arms pumped in a windmill, and I kept going despite how stupid and cartoonish I knew I looked to the guys. “I’m gonna rip his fucking face off.”

Sterling effortlessly shoved me into a bush. I landed on my butt, confused, in a tangle of leaves, twigs, and grass, shortly before getting even angrier as I started to formulate my protest.

“Mason.” Florian held his palm against my chest, restraining me as gently as he knew how. “Chill out. Your sigils are going bananas.”

That took some of the anger out of me. Florian was right. I was glowing like a firefly, the glyphs etched into my skin lighting me up like a Christmas tree. That only ever happened when I got too emotional, and I hated that I ever allowed it to begin with, but hey, I’m still half human.

My breathing went into an even rhythm as I stilled my body and mind, shutting my eyes and regulating myself the way Carver had taught me, a kind of simplistic meditation. Even with my eyes closed, I could see the golden cast of my sigils fading.

And fine, Sterling helped, in his own brusque, obnoxious way. I admit, the bush was a cool, if slightly damp enough place. Being tossed into it was a bit like getting spritzed with some cold water, which at least helped lower my temper and temperature enough to get me to settle a little. Sterling went down on his haunches, leveling his eyes with mine.

“So, are we done being a rabid little honey badger now?”

I bit the inside of my bottom lip, then nodded sheepishly.

“So here’s the plan. Florian, you stay out here where it’s nice and full of nature. If everything goes to hell, you’re our backup. Use your vegetable magic and save our asses in there.”

Florian gave a little salute, then nodded briskly, all seriousness.

“And you. No more tantrums in there, okay, Mason? We’re doing this my way. We’re going to charm the pants right off of this Wyatt guy, then figure out how to take his goods.”

“Right. I promise, no more tantrums.”

I lied. I couldn’t promise that. Come on. Being grumpy’s my whole thing.

We waited for Quilliam to collect whatever it was he needed from his car. When the coast was clear, Sterling and I stood up, leaving Florian hiding in the bush. Sterling kindly picked out some twigs and leaves from my hair, then brushed my clothes off a little, just to make us look convincingly presentable.

“There,” he said, adjusting my jacket. “Now you’re good enough to trick the best of them with Uncle Sterling.”

“Can we – can we please drop this whole Uncle Sterling thing?”

“Never. Now come on.”

I followed Sterling up the cobblestone path to the front door, which, to my surprise, was again left ajar. That suggested a kind of familiarity at play. Wyatt Whateley must have trusted Quilliam enough, and it did imply that this was going to be a short visit. But what the hell did Quill want with a collector of rare treasures? Was Wyatt in danger?

Sterling shoved the door fully open with one hand and swept into the house. I scuttled in after him, and the warm, controlled temperature of the great indoors fell over me like a soft, comforting blanket. Wyatt’s house smelled nice, too, like someone had lit some scented candles before we came in. A fragrance I could best describe as green lingered in the air, making everything smell faintly like a forest.

We passed the foyer, which opened up into a living area, where Quilliam stood at a high table opposite the man of the house. Wyatt Whateley was a mousier sort of gentleman, with beady little eyes that told me he was shy, but not unintelligent. Quite the opposite. He gave me the impression of someone who made himself seem smaller and more vulnerable precisely to put them off guard. It was clever. Too clever.

Wyatt Whateley blinked at us, once, twice, before asking a meek, soft question. “Who are you gentlemen? Is there some way I can help you?”

Quill’s lips hitched into a satisfied smile when his eyes caught mine. I bit my tongue hard to stop myself from doing or saying anything that would blow our cover. It felt as if both Quill and I had silently agreed to pretend we didn’t know each other, to see how the rest of the evening would play out. I placed my focus on Wyatt instead, just about to respond, when Sterling swept in and, just like he promised, did all the talking for me.

“We’re here about the wares.”

Wyatt blinked again. “The wares?”