“You think this is a game, Nova?” The voice of Adrian Caine’s favorite goon in Callum’s ear was a thin stream of muttered distaste. “You think you can come and go as you like? I’ve known men like you,” hissed Wyn, “and I assure you, whatever the big man’s willing to let slide on your behalf, I won’t be so generous. I do not enjoy being played.”
Callum turned slowly to face the weapon Wyn Cockburn had pointed at him. So, someone had tipped off Wyn about Callum’s approach. Perhaps Alys had even taken part in setting the trap for him, judging by the look of apparent nothingness on her face. One of these days, Callum thought, he would have to stop assuming the Caine progeny were all equally incapable of sabotage.
“Where’s Tristan Caine?” snarled Wyn. “Because if you still can’t answer that question, pretty boy, there’s no need for you at all.”
Well, Callum was very pretty, so there was that. And what kind of man grew so infuriated that his own son wasn’t dead yet? Trick question, a bad one, which wasn’t exactly news, but Callum had always known that Tristan’s life or death was not the point of this degree of violence. He did not require magic to understand Adrian’s intentions, nor did he need it to undermine Wyn’s.
But suddenly he tasted the presence of something crisp and tart, like the bite of a freshly plucked apple. So he used it anyway.
Just for fun.
“Put the gun down,” Callum said firstly, “because it’s rude, and take a seat, because it’s about time we had this conversation.” He had not needed to be warned not to mess with Adrian Caine or his variety of underlings, which was precisely the point of the mess-about. Some men needed to snap before their true colors came vibrantly through.
There was some resistance on the witch’s part, which was to be expected. Wyn was unwilling to listen to Callum, perhaps even more vehemently than people normally were. He assumed it was on the basis of something stupid like hatred of Callum’s pretty face or envy of Callum’s position in Adrian’s ear. But although Callum was normally very hospitable, he was officially in a motherfucking mood, and whatever lapse in judgment had caused this unnecessary brush with danger, the window of paralysis to his magic (or to some other aspect of his emotions that he did not want to acknowledge, like the possibility of disappointment in a person he’d foolishly seen in an optimistic light) seemed, thankfully, to have passed.
After a breath of obligatory contrariness, Wyn slumped into a seat.
“Here’s the deal,” said Callum, glancing up at a little flicker of motion to see that Alys Caine remained in the doorway of the kitchen, observing them both. “Tell your boss that putting a hit out on his own son is a terrible way to get him back.”
There was some strain beneath Callum’s control, so he eased it a little, enough to permit casual conversation. Wyn’s smile bared his teeth as usual. “James Wessex will not be killing that good-for-nothing fuckwit,” he muttered. “And neither will some puffed-up toff like you.”
Callum was not a toff, as he had already corrected Tristan. Callum was an asshole and a prick and very wealthy, but toff seemed a stretch. He chose to discard the finer details of that assessment in favor of the obvious, which was Wyn Cockburn’s unmistakable longing to kill Tristan himself.
“So that’s what this is, hm? Jealousy? And here I thought it was a mercy kill for the sake of your little cult’s reputation.” The sense of entitlement here was absurd, well outside the scope of reasonable. Not that Callum hadn’t known that already—he’d expected a double-cross to come along at some point from Adrian Caine or his merry men—but hearing it like that, stripped of its complexity, was almost embarrassing for them both. A rich man won’t kill Adrian Caine’s shitbag son! I’ll do it for him, he’ll love it, it’ll be grand.
Right, well, easy enough to sort out. “Listen to me. Tristan is not an extension of Adrian Caine. His fate is not yours, nor your boss’s, to determine.” Callum leaned closer, just to be sure that Wyn Cockburn was paying attention. “Never was,” Callum murmured, lips barely parting. “Never will be.”
Wyn wanted to say something in return, of course. Understandably, they disagreed on the matter of Tristan’s autonomy as well as Wyn’s own. He couldn’t speak at the moment, though, so Callum continued. “You won’t be killing him. In fact,” Callum determined, finding whatever reserves of usefulness he could and shaking loose the spare change left inside it, “if you do encounter him, you’ll have no choice but to tell him the truth: that he’s the better man. The man Adrian ought to have been if only he’d been able.”
Wyn’s mouth was slick with spite, maybe a little unhinged spittle. Oh, so he didn’t like Callum? Oh no! Whatever would Callum do about it? Perhaps leave him with something to contemplate, like how it was terribly poor form to harass someone’s grown son on the basis of pseudo-sibling rivalry.
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Callum said without looking up at Alys’s unmoving silhouette. “You’re going to tell your fellow thugs that Tristan Caine is not to be harmed. Not a hair on his head. Not a wrinkle on his shirts. In fact, if you even mildly distress him, there’ll be hell to pay for it. I’ve decided that someone with better reasoning should kill him,” Callum added whimsically, “like, say, me, and if anyone else tries, you’ll be the first to warn me. Call it meaningful reparations for fouling up my already shit-filled day.
“So,” Callum finished, “are we clear?”
It had been a while since Callum had done this without Reina. Something felt a little crackly, like improper wiring, but Wyn was sweating against the waves of Callum’s influence, teeth chattering beneath the effort of fighting his restraints.
“That’ll settle in after a beat,” Callum advised, straightening. “In a few minutes you’ll find that the whole thing was your idea, actually. Call it a change of heart.”
He strode to the door, pausing just before he walked through it to lock eyes with Alys Caine, who looked a modicum of sorry. But that was life in this household, wasn’t it? Being sorry for things and doing them anyway. A terrible way to live.
Callum was about to send some parting message her way, perhaps some advice for cunnilingus since she seemed genuinely eager enough to learn, but then his phone buzzed in his pocket. Wouldn’t it be a nice coincidence, a full family reunion, if it was who he thought it was? Though, apparently Alys Caine was very much her father’s daughter, which made Tristan all the more singular. No less killable, but still.
So much for a sexual awakening. Alys’s loss. Callum chose instead to push through the door of the pub, feeling … well, satiated.
If a bit murderous now.