Where Monsters Lie (The Monster Within 2)

“Well, this is just a warm-up game, anyway,” he replies loftily, but he frowns when I make my shot. “And I’ve had more drinks than you.”

“Oh, you’re right!” I say with mock surprise, and down the rest of my beer in one gulp. “Get me another while I make this shot?”

Owen laughs as Piers slinks off to the bar, and even Bennett cracks a smile.

We win handily and Piers demands a rematch. Bennett sighs and suggests we switch teams.

“No!” Piers retorts, nostrils flaring. So with a few more beers in me, we start another game—this time I pay for it.

Piers does much better this game. He’s calling his shots, sinking balls into pockets left and right. Bennett is calm and impassive, occasionally grinning when he makes a really good shot. Between plays, the boys are affectionate—touching my hand, leaning their heads on my shoulders, putting their arms around my waist. Soon enough, we realize that there’s only one numbered ball left on the table—the eight-ball.

We have to take turns trying to get it into a pocket.

“Eight-ball, corner pocket,” Piers says through gritted teeth.

“Which corner?” I ask, grinning.

“The right corner!” he growls. He’s stopped drinking, but I’ve had more beers than him now. I’m feeling the alcohol flowing through me. He shoots, and the eight-ball smacks into the side and rolls elsewhere. “Shut up!” he snaps at me as I laugh. “Shut up!” he repeats as Owen laughs too. Bennett hides his smile behind his hand.

Owen misses, then Bennett, and then I take my turn again. I try to make a trick shot and fail miserably.

“Is the beer finally getting to you?” Bennett asks, elbowing me.

“Not at all. In fact, I think I need another,” I tell him, and he grins at me, slipping his arm around my waist.

Piers readies himself, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. “Eight-ball,” he whispers, leaning over the table. “Left side pocket.”

“Gonna be tricky,” I tell him, leaning into Bennett. Owen comes to my other side and leans his head on my shoulder. “You might scratch. That’ll lose you the game.”

“I. Won’t. Scratch.” He lines up his shot. He cocks his head. He draws the stick back and then, with a sharp crack, hits the cue ball.

Despite myself, I lean forward, and Bennett and Owen move with me. The cue ball smacks into the eight ball, which rockets into the left side pocket, just as Piers said.

“YES!” Piers pumps his fist into the air. “I did it! In your face, Black! In your—”

/> And then the cue ball thumps in right after it.

Immediately, Owen dissolves into a fit of laughter as the smile slips right off Piers’ face.

“You scratched!” I gasp, laughing. “Just like I knew you would!”

“I—I—” Piers’ mouth opens and closes like a fish. I walk over to him as he stands still, staring dumbfounded at the table as though he’s not sure what happened. I wrap my arms around him and press a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey,” I say sweetly, and he looks at me.

“What?”

“I beat your ass.”

He laughs and playfully pushes me away before drawing me back into a one-armed hug. “Maybe we should switch teams,” he says.

“I call Avery,” Bennett says with a grin.

Piers opens his mouth to object, but a local man interrupts him, sidling up to the table and speaking in rapid Romanian.

Owen straightens up and shouts at him, also in Romanian. They’re both speaking quickly, and I can only make out a few words. During normal conversation, I can usually make out most of what’s being said. But now, with both their voices raised and speaking in a slurred, broken version of the language, I can’t get a feel for the conversation.

And then Bennett attacks.