Page 11 of Knife Thrower

3

COLE

The cantina glows at the far end of the lot, strung with bulbs that swing in the wind and throw the shadows around like dice. Deke’s brisket smoke drifts over the gravel and drags me the last fifty yards by the nose.

They’ve pushed three picnic tables together, and every head turns when I clear the awning. Six of my brothers, Teddy, and their women. My sisters now.

“Well?” Wren asks.

Her fingers are laced through Rowe’s. Her whole hand, his whole hand, palm to palm, with his thumb stroking her knuckle in a lazy loop. A year ago, he’d have flinched if a breeze touched his sleeve. I stare at that thumb a second too long, because it still gets me right under the ribs. I like to think I played a role in it. I’m the one who helped him saw that hole into my old throwing board, after all. A man can be a pioneer in many fields.

“She’s tired.” I drop onto the bench beside Jonah, who shifts over without a word and still takes up two-thirds of it. I steal a pickle off his plate. “Her words. Delivered with the warmth of a tax audit.”

Nova groans and flops a hand over her belly. It’s the size of a beach ball under her tank top. “I wanted to meet her. I made brownies.”

“Nobody asked you to make brownies,” Silas says.

“I wanted to make brownies.”

“Then they’re a gift, baby, and I’ll eat hers.” But his eyes have narrowed to slits, aimed at the Airstream across the lot, and I know that look. He’s mapping out the shortest route to Sloane’s door, and whether he’ll need rope. The man would drag her over here by the hair if it made Nova smile.

“Down, boy,” I tell him.

“I’m calm.”

“You’re doing the thing with your jaw.”

Teddy doesn’t look up. He’s got Nova’s bare feet in his lap and works both thumbs into her arches like he’s kneading bread. She lets her head fall back and makes a noise that has no business being made in front of a dinner table. Teddy just grins and keeps going.

Jules swirls the ice in her glass. The ring on her finger flashes under the bulbs, a sapphire ringed in rubies, tucked beside a plain band. “Is she actually tired?” she asks. “Or is she just not interested in becoming a part of the family?”

She tilts her chin toward Elias. He sits at the head of the table with his top hat resting on the wood and the gloves finally off, one hand curled around her thigh.

“She’s closed off.” He rolls the stem of his glass between two fingers.

I tip my head from side to side. “A little of both, I think. Tired, and not looking for friends.”

“Everyone’s looking for friends,” Wren says gently.

“Not her.” I pop the pickle in my mouth. “She’s got a door on her face, and she keeps it locked. I’m working on the hinges.”

Logan yawns, a jaw-cracking, full-body stretch that pops his spine and tips his chair onto two legs. He kicks his boots up on the table. “This is boring.”

“It’s a family dinner,” Jules says.

“It’s boring.” He picks at a scorched knuckle. “Know what else is boring? We haven’t hunted a Prophet in forever.”

“Two months.” Marek’s voice slides out of the dark at the edge of the awning, where he sits with a dog leaning on his boot. Beau thumps his tail at the sound. “We disposed of Harlan two months ago.”

Everyone’s eyes go to Rowe on instinct, and mine too. His shoulders stay loose. His thumb keeps moving over Wren’s knuckle. He glances at the bulbs, takes a breath, and returns to his plate. Not a twitch. My throat does something weird, and I wash it down with whiskey.

“Two months is forever,” Logan insists.

“You’re a pyromaniac, Lo,” I comment. “Everything’s forever.”

“I’m saying it’s been two months too long.”

“For you,” Jonah rumbles. He folds his napkin into a neat square, which is a sight on a man whose hands could palm a basketball. “I like this. Sitting here with everybody. No blood under my nails. No digging holes at three in the morning.” He lifts a shoulder, almost shy. “The wedding was nice. The baby shower will be nice. I already ordered the cake.”