Devil's Bargain

Everything here is steeped in history, but all of it, it’s tired. Like it’s not been cared for and time is eating it away.

It’s strange. Sad in a way to lose the past like that but I can’t imagine what it costs to keep up a house like this.

Beside the fireplace is a basket overflowing with toys and children’s books. I didn’t realize there was a child living here. Strange that Hawk wouldn’t have mentioned it.

I have to remember he’s under an immense amount of stress right now between the death of his father and having come back here, to a place that obviously holds a lot of emotions for him. Painful ones.

Emotions I’m sure he’ll refuse to feel or even acknowledge.

There’s a sconce along the wall that’s lit in the hallway and I follow it toward what I hope is the kitchen. I pass the front doors and peer out of the deep-set windows at that strange light coming and going as clouds obscure the moon.

I get to a door without a handle and push on it. It swings inward and there’s a light that’s been left on over the modern stove. I step into the large kitchen and it’s such a strange place with old and new, the countertops smooth stone, the long, heavy wooden table which looks like it’s as old as the house, the newer chairs, plush and comfortable, the appliances stainless steel and gleaming, the refrigerator a Goliath mounted into the wall.

A toy train is the only thing on the table. It looks old, not like the plastic toys you find in the shops these days. More like an antique.

On the wall, I see the light switch and I turn it on. The room is bathed in soft light and the windows become mirrors. Dishes are stacked on the drying rack beside the sink and the dishwasher hums as it runs.

There’s a large pot on the stove but I’m disappointed when I open it to find it empty.

I go to the refrigerator and there I find cheeses and meats and decide on a sandwich. Taking out a few things, I set them on the counter and find a loaf of bread covered by a tea towel on a cutting board.

Using the knife beside it, I cut two thick slices and set them on my dish to make my sandwich at the counter. I’m just sitting down to take my first bite when the swinging door opens.

I’m startled.

But so is he.

Declan. Hawk’s brother.

He stands there for a moment looking at me with surprise, but he recovers quickly and smiles, comes inside.

“You weren’t introduced to me,” he says, and I really have to pay attention to understand him because his accent is so heavy. “I’m Declan MacLeod, Hawk’s half-brother.” He holds out his hand.

I put my sandwich down, force myself to swallow the bite in my mouth and place my hand in his. “I’m Melissa.”

“Melissa. It’s nice to meet you. You missed dinner.”

“I must have slept through it.”

“We didn’t want to wake you. The maid said you were fast asleep.”

“Where’s Hawk?” I ask.

He shrugs a shoulder and moves to the counter. “Who knows?” he asks, opening a cupboard and taking out an unmarked bottle of liquor. “You like whiskey?” he asks, turning to me.

He seems different than Hawk. Not as hardened.

“It’s our own,” he says, not waiting for my answer but taking two glasses and returning to the table to take a seat across from me. “Don’t mind me. Eat,” he says, pouring whiskey into both glasses and passing one to me.

I take a bite but have to concentrate on chewing. I can’t seem to drag my eyes away. The similarity in features is so striking, but the differences are just as stunning.

And he’s like a window into Hawk’s life. A living, breathing part of a world Hawk won’t or can’t share.

“Are you normally up at three in the morning?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

He gives a sad little smile. “It’s been a long few weeks. And now with my brother back, they’ll be longer still.”

I nod. I don’t know what to say.

He picks up the toy train, touches the chipped corner.

“Is there a child in the house? I saw the toys in the living room.”

“Aye,” he says. “My boy.”

“Your son?” I smile, remember the photo I’d seen with him holding the baby. But then I think about Hawk out there in Las Vegas alone in that sterile penthouse and I can’t imagine how he’d walk away from this.

“His name is James. He’s four years old. I’m sure he’ll come find you first thing in the morning, which means in about four hours—if you’re lucky,” he says, checking his watch. “He’s an early riser.”

“I look forward to meeting him. Does Benjamin live here with you as well?”