And hours more with Doyle in bed. Or on the floor.
She went with Sawyer to Dublin, using a trip for supplies as cover. Leaving a sulking Annika behind. Since they were there, she replaced the ruined sweatshirt.
And since they were there, she dragged a somewhat shell-shocked Sawyer into a pub for a pint.
“Maybe I should’ve just bought a ready-made.”
“This way means more.”
“Yeah, but . . . then it would just be done.”
Riley settled back to enjoy her Guinness, as to her mind there was nothing quite like a well-built Guinness, savored slowly in a dimly lit Irish pub.
Add a plate of chips still hot from the fryer and drizzled with salt and vinegar? Perfection.
“Getting cold feet?”
“No. No, it’s just . . .” Sawyer took a fast, nonsavoring pull from his own pint. “I’m going to get engaged—ring and everything. It’s a moment.”
Happy to drink to that, Riley hefted her pint. “Here’s to the moment.”
“Yeah.” He clinked glasses with her, glanced around as if he’d forgotten where they were. “It seems weird to be here—all these people—just sitting here having a beer. Nobody knows what the fuck, Riley, except you and me.”
Biting into a chip, Riley looked around herself—the buzz of conversation, the energy and color.
Low lights on a day when the sun couldn’t make up its mind, air smelling of beer and fried potatoes and pureed vegetable soup.
Voices—German, Japanese, Italian. American, Canadian, Brit, Irish accents.
She’d always considered a good European bar a kind of mini UN.
“I missed people,” she realized, “and that’s not usually true for me. But I’ve missed the noise and the vibe. The faces and voices of strangers. It’s good they don’t know what the fuck. They can’t do a damn thing about it. So it’s another moment, just sitting here like normal people, having a normal beer in a normal pub.”
“You’re right. You’re right. At the bottom it’s what we’re fighting for.”
“A world where anybody can have a beer at four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon.”
“Or get engaged to a mermaid.”
“That might be stretching it for most anyone but you in this pub, or in Dublin. But yeah, I can drink to that.” She glanced over at the waitress, a young, fresh-faced girl with deep purple hair. “We’re good, thanks.”
“When I’m done, and this world is dark, I’ll drink your blood.”
The girl had a quick smile, a pretty lilt in her voice. And her eyes were blind and mad. Riley slid a hand under her jacket, snapped open her holster.
“Don’t,” Sawyer whispered, gaze fixed on the waitress’s face. “She’s innocent.”
“You’re weak. Did you think what you hold could destroy me? I grow stronger.”
As they watched, the purple hair grew, went smoke gray streaked with black. Blue eyes went black as they shifted to Riley. “I may keep you as a pet, and let Malmon have you.”
Though she kept one hand on her gun, Riley picked up her glass. “Yawn,” she said, and drank.
The table shook; the chairs rattled. And the other patrons drank on, talked on, feeling nothing.
Deliberately, Sawyer twirled a finger in the air. “Hey, if you’re playing waitress—nice look for you—maybe you could get us some beer nuts to go with the pints and chips.”
Rage stained the creamy Irish skin florid pink. “I’ll peel the flesh from your bones, feed it to my dogs.”