Bobby’s eyes go wide, and she stares at Kit like a rabbit frozen in headlights. “The big shindig? Beggin’ your pardon, Alpha, but I don’t think the likes of me are welcome there.”
“Apparently, we’re having a carnival,” I say. “Not a ball.”
“Even then,” Bobby mutters. “Doesn’t seem right.”
Kit raps the table with his knuckles. “We’re making changes, Bobby. Believe that. Residents of the West End are absolutely welcome on the north side. Just give me and my new council a few months. The elders are offering resistance, but we’re making changes.”
“How about your grandfather’s other… friends?” Bobby asks carefully.
Kit looks at her evenly, his face open and honest. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or a personal revelation, but he looks like he’s suddenly become enlightened to a great truth.
“Bobby,” he says softly, “there are certain members of grandfather’s staff who are no longer in my employ, or that of the council. When grandfather died, so did that arm of the pack. There will be no more… visits from those three particular wolves. Never again.”
I swallow down a gasp as my heart flutters in my chest. Kit didn’t really reveal much, but it was enough.
He confirmed that the death squad really did work for Leopold, officially on the payroll. Even though most people knew, Leopold kept it as vague as possible so he could maintain his flawless image. Got to make the rich feel safe—but who cares about a couple of worthless peasants here and there?
I look away in a hurry, not wanting Kit to see my emotional struggle. I know richer families were sometimes hit, too, just in a much more discreet way. Leopold ruled by fear, and the kill squad was his weapon.
And Kit… did he approve of it? Was he part of it?
I turn to look back at him, and all I can see in his eyes is need.
He’s trying to change. I’ve got to give him that.
“Well, that’s good to know,” Bobby says. “Drink your ale, you two, and have a good evening.”
“I will. I mean, I am.” Kit smiles. “Here, let me buy a round for the bar.”
He goes through his wallet and pulls out a small stack of bills. He doesn’t even count it, just slams it on the table in front of Bobby.
“That’s far too generous of you—” Bobby begins.
“Take it,” he insists. “Spoil everyone in the joint. My grandfather told me the poor were dishonest, always scheming to get another dollar out of you. I’m pleased to find out that isn’t the case.”
“Get off with you,” Bobby says, waving at us. “I can’t take much more of this civilized conversation.”
“Let’s go,” I say, nudging Kit as I grab the beers. “Darts are over here.”
Kit stumbles a little as we reach the table, but manages to stay on his feet. I’m worried about how we’ll play darts, but after the first round, I can see he has a steady arm, even as drunk as he is.
“You can really play,” I comment as he pulls his darts from the board. “You really never handled darts before?”
“Nope,” he answers. “But I have aimed things at targets.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask. I take my turn with the board, most of my shots going wide.
“Might be time to call it a night,” I say, pulling the darts out of the board. “My arm is done.”
“Yeah,” Kit says. “I’m reluctant to leave, though. This has been so much fun.”
“We’ll come back,” I reply, patting his arm.
While I’m packing away the darts, I see a huge, lumbering shadow lift itself out of a back corner and trudge slowly towards Kit. I rush to get back to him, dropping the darts and cursing as I try to hurry.
“What’re you and yer fancy kind doin’ here?” the voice drawls.
Shit. It’s Johnny Cain.
