Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Twenty One

'Friends close, enemies closer: 9 pm Railway Tavern,'

The joint was buzzing with cheesy pop tunes, the tang of stale beer, and the charming aroma of peanuts, offering a welcome departure from the usual gloom. Those stories were doing the cha-cha in my head, and I had to do some serious arm-twisting to keep Charlie from being my unwanted shadow. He insisted on playing guardian angel, claiming he had been on standby since I dialled him. It was odd.

I'd been beating myself up for yanking Charlie back into my life, but he's been lurking on the fringes longer than I thought. The secrets they're keeping seem like the tip of the iceberg—the concerned look when I brought up Mathew; what else were they hiding? And what had Charlie been up to? Damn, I could use a drink, something to scrape the lining off my throat and dial down my senses.

Skip introduced me to the rogues' gallery on the shelf, and I've developed a taste for this toxic brew. These little details make it harder to buy into my notion that Skip despises me. I might have pushed a tad too far earlier. The case and the madness around it have played hopscotch with my sanity. I hope the next escapade sheds some light. Why the hell didn't I croak back then? I had to unravel what my frenemy knew.

Right on cue, a gust of overpowering cheap aftershave barrelled through the air. The pub door squealed, and I doubt I'll ever get used to my heightened senses going bonkers. The footsteps clunked in, heavy and uneven, right foot leading the rebellion. Six strides from the door to a blissfully happy couple with their red wine at the first table. Ten steps past the friendly giggles, dodging a drunk guy in a suit who cared more about his watch than his chair. Another eight-and-a-pint-sized figure hovered by an empty seat to my right. The aftershave did squat to mask the overcoat of cigarette smoke—Marlborough, at least 20 today.

"I wondered how long it would take you to call," the Cockney prince says.

"Well, I never thought I would. So, chalk one up for you."

"Oh, I never doubted it. Just curious why it took you so long to connect the dots," Dalton moseyed to the bar, leaving that comment dangling. Were we on the same page? The pressure was on to extract answers while keeping it civil. Skip clammed up about Dalton's allegiances. I needed to poke the bear to get him talking.

My head was throbbing, and I was daydreaming while watching my ice melt. Sticky elbows provided a short distraction as I waited for Dalton to return. He clomped back, two pints in hand. I didn't peg him as a heavy drinker, so I assumed one was mine. That unexpected generosity had me playing catch-up. I was geared up for a verbal duel, not this camaraderie.

"There you go. Get that down your neck; I have a feeling this conversation is going to need it."

"Cheers. So, spill. Why did you agree to meet?" He stared, sipping his pint, leaving me in the frothy silence. I needed to swallow my pride if I wanted anything from him. Scratch that. I needed to dive into a pool of humble pie.

"Because you and I have more in common than you think. Judging by your face and that call, you're wrestling with some demons and need straight answers."

"You've been dropping cryptic hints like breadcrumbs, none of which have cracked Chris's killer. And you're waltzing to someone else's tune. Stop me when I shouldn't be losing sleep over this."

"Fair point. But it's not what you think. There's a bullseye on your back now. I've tried to tip you off and create chaos to set you free. Had to follow up on the call; I'm getting heat from above. How else was I going to kick your brain into gear? Make you see the big picture. Now, a body has bobbed up in the Thames." He already knew I figured it would trickle down to him, but I counted on him not being the OIC. Skip had his reasons for bowing out.