Page 71 of Omega's Flight
"I—" What could I say to that? Nothing, except thank you, because Holland shot me a look that told me he knew I was going to try to say no, and he wasn't going to allow it. "Thank you. I'd like that."
"I'll have Garrick ask Laine about painting lessons, too. That's if you're interested. It might be a little tricky arranging it—the Bureau doesn't quite understand shifters wanting to go into the city for pleasure—but Bax and I will have to just grit our teeth and explain using very small words." He took a sip from his mug and stared into the distance. "If we can turn this talent into something sellable, you wouldn’t need to learn all that math." His eyes crinkled with unspoken laughter.
"It's not very useful," I said in a small voice. "Really, I was thinking I should maybe learn something like working in an office or maybe... I don't know," I confessed. "I don't really know what would be useful."
"Useful has a lot of different definitions," Holland told me. "Beauty is useful. We'll forget ourselves if we never really have a way to see us. That's what artists do." He grinned wryly at my startled look. "You hear all sorts of things said in the fashion world. But that doesn't make them not true." He spread the picture open to stare at it again." Thank you, Raleigh. It's beautiful. Quin will love it."
The thunder of puppy feet racing down the hallway filled the air, and then it roared into the apartment as Holland's two oldest and my two oldest tore around the corner. "Papa!" Pip yelled and ran over to give me a hug. The baby squealed in his high chair and threw the last of his crackers and Holland laughed and bent to pick them up.
"Holland, what's this?" Agatha asked, pressing the picture flat.
"Careful with that, sweetheart. It's a picture that Ann's and Pip's Papa drew for me. Isn't it nice?"
She tipped her head sideways and stared at it, and the other pups crowded up beside Holland to join her. "That's Quin," Dorian said. "And you." His questing finger was expertly intercepted by his adoptive bearer.
"It is. I think we'll frame this and put it on the wall, yes? Do you want to go—quietly!—and see if Quin wants to see it?"
"He's busy," Pip said. "We wanted him to come play with us, but he's talking on the phone again." She'd already lost interest in the picture, the novelty of Papa making images of things having worn off a long time ago. "Come on, Dorian, let's get your cars." The pups all disappeared down the hall, leaving Holland and me and the baby alone again.
Holland rolled the picture back up, taking care not to touch the image. "I'm going to put this someplace safe," he said and disappeared for a moment into the kitchen. When he came back, his eyes were dancing. "I put it up above the fridge. The pups haven't figured out how to reach that cupboard yet." He slid into his chair with a sigh, pushed another cracker into the baby's reach, and sipped at his cocoa. "So, what does an artist need to do their job?"
C H A P T E R 5 1
C as made it back to his room in the bachelor's apartments after taking the most circuitous route he'd ever used. It seemed, lately, that everyone had some question of law or accounting that needed to be asked. He supposed it was a good thing, because it meant that the pack wasn't stagnating any more, that Abel's and then Quin's plans to encourage entrepreneurs and small business were working. But damn, it ate a lot of time out of his day.
He set the journals on his tiny table, a little off to the side. He knew himself well enough to realize he'd not be able to stop himself from reading while he ate, so might as well accept it from the beginning and leave them in easy reach.
He had a little coffee maker in his room, a splurge he'd bought just before he graduated from law school. While it gurgled away on the counter making its two cups of coffee, he tidied everything away, hanging his coat on the nail on the back of the door, setting his bag on the shelf by the end of his bed, and digging out some leftovers. They’d been sent down by Holland, care of one of the teenagers that had gotten on the wrong side of his temper and was now working it off in small jobs until he learned to think before he pranked.
Chinese food, or Holland's version of it. One thing about his packbrother working so much outside walls, the kinds of food he made had changed and Quin said he was never sure what he'd be sitting down to for meals, only that it was likely to be good.
Cas didn't mind. He certainly wasn't bothered by the random culinary gifts, and the smell of soy sauce and the dry smell of rice as they heated in the frying pan on his little burner made his stomach rumble. I need to stop skipping lunch. It didn't do him any good.
The coffee pot made its last gurgle, complaining and spitting out steam everywhere, then sat sullenly on the counter. He poured himself a mug and made sure not to look at the journals sitting on the table. Then he stirred the warming food on the stove and didn't look at the journals. Got down a plate and set it next to the stove, ready to be filled, and didn't look at the journals.
The suspense was killing him.
Finally, he was able to take everything over to the table. And then he could open the books up and figure out what it was that the omegas all knew, but he didn't.
Cas opened the first journal, his fork poised in his other hand, and started to read.
And before he'd gone ten pages in, he understood why the omegas weren't spreading this all around. At twenty-five pages in, he understood why it would be dangerous to allow the humans to read these journals.
And by sixty pages in, he knew what it was that Holland could do, and his blood ran cold.
HOLLAND DIDN' T LOOK IN THE LEAST SURPRISED WHEN HE OPENED THE APARTMENT DOOR TO FIND CAS on the other side. "Come on in. I'm just finishing the dishes." He stepped aside to let Cas in and quietly closed the door behind him. "I'm guessing you got at least a quarter of the way through the journal."
"I finished it." Cas held it up in emphasis, then let his hand fall to his side again. "When did you figure it out?"
"Come on, help me clean up." Holland turned and walked off to the kitchen. "Quin's got Dorian in the bath right now, so we have a few minutes, but I need to get the dishes done before we settle in with the pups." He reached into the sink and pulled up a plate. "If you wanted to dry, I wouldn't say no."
Cas scanned the countertop for someplace he could put the journal down, then set it gingerly on top of the refrigerator. "Cloth?"
"Just get a new one." Holland set the plate in the dish drainer and reached down into the bubbles again. "So, are you afraid of me now?"
Was he? Not really, not knowing Holland as he did. But yeah, someone new to the enclave? They'd be downright terrified. "I'd hope you'd spare your best packbrother." He tugged open the drawer Holland kept his dish towels in and pulled out whatever was on top, hoping it was for drying.
Holland barked a laugh and handed him a plate. "Your other brother said the same thing to me." He turned back to the sink and began working at something stuck to a fork. "So, when did I figure it out? Not all at once, that's for sure." He frowned and scraped at the fork's tines with his thumbnail. "I think, maybe after Garrick was shot. It wasn't on purpose, just—Quin was stuck in a dream and couldn't get himself out of it." Holland glanced up at him, and Cas could almost see the memory reflected in his eyes. "I was scared to death, didn't know what to do, just—I don't know. At one point, I grabbed onto him, or maybe he grabbed on to me, I forget. And I remember thinking that if he couldn't break out of that dream Zane might not have a bearer the next day. So I just...reached? I still don't quite understand how it works." He handed the fork off to Cas. "I really need to do dishes more than once a day. Breakfast egg yolk is a misery to clean off."
