It was just one of the many blessings that had rained down on a thief ’s head since he’d come here with the other bastards.
And he’d repaid the household how?
Closing his eyes, he hung his head and exhaled. He’d brought that demon to them. Oh, God . . . he’d brought evil to their midst.
How had it started? When had the infiltration happened? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it had been that electrocution, although why that had created an opening in his soul, he wasn’t sure. Yes, he had died . . . but plenty of people he knew had shaken hands with the Grim Reaper and not brought back a door prize from hell.
Like, literally from Hell.
As his antsy anxiety surged, he smoked faster, exhaling over his shoulder even though no one was around to secondhand smoke. He had been treated with nothing but respect by the Brotherhood and their community. Even, dare he say it, love.
It was in the nature of thieves to steal, however.
And apparently, he was so fucking good at the felony, he wasn’t even aware of doing it anymore. Because sure as shit, he had stolen the security of those wonderful people inside this grand old mansion, and that grift was going to lead to an even larger and more dire larceny.
Somehow, it was going to kill them all.
And everything was going to be his fault—
“Let it go.”
With a shout, Balz skidded around. “What? Oh, shit, Lass, what the fuck. Sneaking up on a guy like that.”
On a night like this, he added to himself.
Lassiter stepped forward from the shadows, his blond-and-black hair catching the moonbeams that fell from the cold sky above. Or maybe it was just the fallen angel glowing like a night-light.
“Let it go.”
Balz frowned. The male’s lips weren’t moving.
Let it go.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Balz tapped the hand-rolled. “Now is not the time for some Frozen bullshit, okay? I’m not in the mood—”
Over at the stone steps, figures appeared from out of the darkness, the Brothers and the other bastards returning from wherever they’d been, their strong backs to him as they faced their home.
“Fucking finally,” Balz muttered.
His impulse was to flick the stub, but he licked his thumb and pinched it out. And as he started off toward the other fighters, he tried to figure what pocket to put the remains in—and decided he didn’t want to crap up his leathers. So he ate the goddamn thing.
He was chewing the wedge—and grimacing at the musky, burned taste while wondering why, assuming it was biodegradable enough to shoot into his digestive tract, he hadn’t just pitched it on the ground and let nature run its course—as he came up to the Brotherhood.
Everyone was chatting at the same time.
“. . . working with us.”
“I can’t believe he’s actually alive—”
“—the hell he’s been all these years?”
“I know where the Book is.”
As Balz spoke the words, the turnaround on the stairs was such a Bob Fosse–oner, it might as well have been choreographed: Every single fighter was suddenly looking at him, and as he swallowed the wad of tobacco-flavored paper-gum, he prayed he was not making everything worse.
And not with what he’d just put into his gut.
Glancing behind to get some more atta’boy from Lassiter—
He frowned. The angel was not there.
Whatever.
“I know where the Book is,” he repeated to all of them.
Tohr shook his head. And came down the steps. “This is why you told Fritz to shutter the house?”
“Yeah—and . . .” Balz took a deep breath—and coughed a random tobacco flake out of his esophagus. “I can’t live here anymore. I’m infected with . . .”
Over on the left, Butch leaned in as if Balz wasn’t speaking loud enough.
“You’re sick?” Tohr asked as the wind blew in from the north.
Shit, what if what he was saying didn’t translate again?
Balz glanced around, and there, in the back of the lineup . . . “Rehv. You can read my grid, right? I want you to tell them what you see. I’d tell them myself . . . but I’m worried she won’t let me.”
As the Reverend stepped around the others, the symphath’s amethyst eyes narrowed. “Who’s she?”
“Just tell them what you see.”
There was a long moment, that odd wind whirling around as if it were searching for a way through clothing to direct skin. Or maybe that was what Balz was sensing as the symphath entered his emotional landscape.
“He’s got . . .” Rehv seemed to search for words. “There’s something wrong. His grid has a locking pattern across it.”
Xcor descended the steps and stood right beside Balz. “Whatever it is, we are with you. We shall fix whatever is wrong.”
“I’m dangerous,” Balz said roughly. “I don’t know how it happened—but I can’t be here anymore.”
“Then we find you a safe place.” Xcor grabbed Balz’s shoulders. “We do not desert our family.”