table back at the brownstone the triad sisters had shared. The platform had big metal underpinnings, as well as a smooth, polished surface and a lead-lined trench carved around the edge. Stupid thing was big enough to hold half the Cirque du Soleil, if those freaks chose to show up and perform in a place now widely rumored to be haunted.
The OCU and the Sibyls had, of course, redecorated the place since they took possession of the dwelling owned by Nick and Creed on the Upper East Side near the Reservoir. The five-story Federal-style brick townhouse had, after all, belonged to their father and mother. The parents who died.
The mother I killed.
Nick tensed, remembering his earlier conversation with Cynda about Senator Davin Latch and his wife, Raven. Nick didn’t want to give them the honor of calling them parents, even though a big part of him remembered them that way. Sick, twisted—but parents, who took some pride in what they had created, and the potential Nick and Creed showed.
Those maniacs were not parents. More like donors. Yeah. Sperm and egg donors.
He had no need to go there. The Latches and all their madness were over. He did what had to be done.
His gut ached like it always did when he thought about that bloody scene four months ago. Sweat coated his face and arms, even though he wasn’t hot. Nick clenched his jaw and wished he could dig a knife in his chest and cut out those memories. He’d pitch ’em out the nearest window and never look back—but something Cynda said back in the Jeep kept bugging him.
“ You can’t separate Jake from what happened to your parents…. Do you think you owe Jake something because of how they died? ”
Nick hadn’t thought about it in just those words.
The heat on his face eased, and he forced his muscles to relax.
He didn’t think he owed Jake anything, no. But…maybe Jake felt differently. Nick had an idea now about how to reach the Astaroth. Something he hadn’t tried—at least not in the right way. He would, today, later.
His eyes moved on to Cynda’s massive Celtic harp, dominating the corner of the room opposite that big table. Nick shook his head. Now that thing had been a pain to move. Two or three times, he had dented the floor with it, damaging their new HQ.
Well, HCQ.
Head Case Quarters, as every other precinct lovingly referred to the townhouse.
Plumbing issues aside, the place was pretty solid. At least they didn’t have to deal with the press here. Besides, they couldn’t have Sibyls and half demons whizzing in and out of the old Fourteenth Precinct, down on West Thirtieth. The police annex wasn’t set up for that level of traffic, or for enough privacy to hide the real purpose of the OCU with so many new people involved. So, the OCU had moved operations to the townhouse. Here at HCQ, Sibyls and the OCU could interact freely, and without public scrutiny. Any public or media-related work would be conducted by the OCU alone, down at the little set of offices they maintained at the old Fourteenth.
A loud hiss from Cynda drew Nick’s attention back to the redhead on the communications platform. Now Cynda seemed to be talking to women in blue and brown robes. At the other two Motherhouses, he presumed.
Whatever they were saying, it made Cynda frown.
At least the brown-robed crones and blue-robed harridans didn’t seem interested in Nick like that one from Motherhouse Ireland.
The old woman in green was still glowering at him through that other mirror, the one with the carved bog-oak frame that Cynda liked best. The crone’s expression reminded Nick of how the Sibyls in the alley had regarded him, like he was a cross between cockroach and rat, though they hadn’t said a word about why.
Nick felt Gideon rumble in the back of his mind, creeping forward, ready to help him face this threat, whatever it was.
He tried to brush Gideon backward, but the beast wouldn’t go.
Clearly, the old woman in the green robes didn’t have positive
The OCU and the Sibyls had, of course, redecorated the place since they took possession of the dwelling owned by Nick and Creed on the Upper East Side near the Reservoir. The five-story Federal-style brick townhouse had, after all, belonged to their father and mother. The parents who died.
The mother I killed.
Nick tensed, remembering his earlier conversation with Cynda about Senator Davin Latch and his wife, Raven. Nick didn’t want to give them the honor of calling them parents, even though a big part of him remembered them that way. Sick, twisted—but parents, who took some pride in what they had created, and the potential Nick and Creed showed.
Those maniacs were not parents. More like donors. Yeah. Sperm and egg donors.
He had no need to go there. The Latches and all their madness were over. He did what had to be done.
His gut ached like it always did when he thought about that bloody scene four months ago. Sweat coated his face and arms, even though he wasn’t hot. Nick clenched his jaw and wished he could dig a knife in his chest and cut out those memories. He’d pitch ’em out the nearest window and never look back—but something Cynda said back in the Jeep kept bugging him.
“ You can’t separate Jake from what happened to your parents…. Do you think you owe Jake something because of how they died? ”
Nick hadn’t thought about it in just those words.
The heat on his face eased, and he forced his muscles to relax.
He didn’t think he owed Jake anything, no. But…maybe Jake felt differently. Nick had an idea now about how to reach the Astaroth. Something he hadn’t tried—at least not in the right way. He would, today, later.
His eyes moved on to Cynda’s massive Celtic harp, dominating the corner of the room opposite that big table. Nick shook his head. Now that thing had been a pain to move. Two or three times, he had dented the floor with it, damaging their new HQ.
Well, HCQ.
Head Case Quarters, as every other precinct lovingly referred to the townhouse.
Plumbing issues aside, the place was pretty solid. At least they didn’t have to deal with the press here. Besides, they couldn’t have Sibyls and half demons whizzing in and out of the old Fourteenth Precinct, down on West Thirtieth. The police annex wasn’t set up for that level of traffic, or for enough privacy to hide the real purpose of the OCU with so many new people involved. So, the OCU had moved operations to the townhouse. Here at HCQ, Sibyls and the OCU could interact freely, and without public scrutiny. Any public or media-related work would be conducted by the OCU alone, down at the little set of offices they maintained at the old Fourteenth.
A loud hiss from Cynda drew Nick’s attention back to the redhead on the communications platform. Now Cynda seemed to be talking to women in blue and brown robes. At the other two Motherhouses, he presumed.
Whatever they were saying, it made Cynda frown.
At least the brown-robed crones and blue-robed harridans didn’t seem interested in Nick like that one from Motherhouse Ireland.
The old woman in green was still glowering at him through that other mirror, the one with the carved bog-oak frame that Cynda liked best. The crone’s expression reminded Nick of how the Sibyls in the alley had regarded him, like he was a cross between cockroach and rat, though they hadn’t said a word about why.
Nick felt Gideon rumble in the back of his mind, creeping forward, ready to help him face this threat, whatever it was.
He tried to brush Gideon backward, but the beast wouldn’t go.
Clearly, the old woman in the green robes didn’t have positive
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