Chapter Twelve

It was late when the two motorcycles rolled back into the Clubhouse compound. They parked their bikes and cut the engines. Sandman threw his leg over his seat and stood, pulling his helmet off.

Blood was a little slower climbing off. His side was aching. He’d taken a couple of painkillers and could think of nothing better than falling into bed. His eyes drifted across the compound, seeing two women standing in the moonlight, one smoking a cigarette. The other one turned to look at him, and he realized, even in the darkness, that it was Cat.

Sandman headed inside, and Blood strolled toward them. His eyes connected with Marla’s for a moment. She took the hint, dropped her cigarette, grinding it under her high-heeled boot, and headed inside.

Cat stared up at the moon, ignoring him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against him as he dipped his mouth to her ear. “We still speaking?”

He could feel her bristle, trying to hold her silence, but in the end she couldn’t. “Am I your captive now?”

“You’re my guest.”

“So, I can leave whenever I like?”

“No.” He felt her body stiffen. Blood wasn’t a man who usually explained himself, but he felt the need this time. “It’s for your own good.”

Her head turned toward the bikes.

“I take it you d-didn’t find her.” Her voice came out shaky, like she was on the verge of breaking down.

“No, babe. Showed her picture all over the Quarter. Put the word out to all my connections. She’s out there; we’ll find her.”

She trembled in his arms. “I’m so scared for her. What if they’ve killed her?”

His arms tightened. “They wouldn’t do that. She’s valuable to them.”

“She must be terrified.”

“I’ll get her back, Cat. I promise you.”

She stayed quiet, and he wondered if she believed him. There was no sense trying to convince her—he’d have to prove it. And that was unfortunately going to take some time—time he wasn’t sure he’d have much of. He knew he couldn’t put off club business. It was going to have to take precedence over the next couple of days. At least until they got a handle on what the Death Heads were up to.

His eyes moved to the low hanging full moon bathed in a red-orange hue, shining just behind the black shadows of the tall cypress trees. “That’s called a Blood Moon.”

“So now you have a moon named after you?” she asked with a trace of sarcasm.

“It’s called that because of the color.”

She stayed quiet, staring up at it.

He didn’t want to tell her that some thought it was a bad omen—a signal of foreboding. Blood didn’t want to believe that shit, but he couldn’t deny the bad feeling he had that the worst was yet to come. Christ, things were already bad; he hated to think they’d get worse.

Cat didn’t need to hear any of that, so he racked his brain for something to lighten the mood. The midnight blue sky behind the dark shadowy outline of the cypress reminded him of a poem. For some odd reason that he couldn’t quite wrap his brain around and didn’t want to examine too closely, he found himself reciting it to her.

When the day turns to dusk

And the first stars emerge

When the mist is forming yonder

In a ghostly mystic blue

When the cypress trees turn black

Like phantoms rising up

Let the golden moonlight shining

Illuminate your heart

And think of me with longing

Until no more we are apart

She turned her head to look up at him like he’d unexpectedly grown two heads, and he suddenly felt like an idiot, standing here reciting fucking poetry like some geek.

“That’s beautiful.”

He looked down at her upturned face, his eyes moving over every inch. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the only one I know. My mama taught it to me. It was a poem in a book she loved.”

The door to the clubhouse opened, breaking the moment. Blood looked up to see Undertaker strolling toward them, and he dropped his arms from around Cat.

Undertaker paused next to them, dipping his head to light up a joint before blowing out a stream of smoke toward the sky. His eyes fell to Cat. “Past your bedtime, little girl. Marla made up a room for you. She’s inside.”

Cat looked at Blood, and he lifted his chin. “Get some sleep.”

She turned and headed inside.

When she was gone, Undertaker took another hit and passed it to Blood. “Give her space. I need your eyes on the Death Heads, and your head in the game.”

“It always is.”

“Take it you came up empty?”

Blood took a toke, his eyes on the sky. “Unfortunately.”

“And the Death Heads?”

“No sign of them.”

Undertaker nodded.

“Any intel yet?” Blood asked.

“Got a couple leads I want to check out tomorrow. Still waiting to hear back from Texas. They’re out scoping out the Death Heads’ numbers tonight.”

Blood nodded. “I stopped by Black Jack’s.”

That got Undertaker’s attention. He huffed out a breath, and Blood knew he was pissed he’d gone in with just himself and Sandman. “How’d that go?”

“Claims he doesn’t know anything about her. I don’t trust him.”

“Imagine that.”

Blood’s eyes snapped to him. “I’m not satisfied with his answers. He’d sell out his own mother if it got him something.”

“Don’t disagree.”

“You don’t think it’s odd that I ran into the Death Heads near his place?”

“I think he’s worth keeping an eye on.”

“And…?”

“I’ll put the Prospects on it. How are you holding up?”

Blood took another toke. “With painkillers and pure grit.”

Undertaker glared at him. “Don’t need you thinking you’re Superman.”

Blood tried to suppress a smile. “You mean I’m not?”

Undertaker shook his head with a chuckle and changed the subject. “What do you want to do with our friend in the back room?”

“What do you think?” Blood wanted to kill him, preferable with his bare hands.

Undertaker grinned, his white teeth flashing in the moonlight, and clamped his hand on Blood’s shoulder. “Get some rest. We’ll figure that out tomorrow.”