He wound through a crowd of people standing, holding glass mugs and talking loudly to be heard over the music. When he was closer to the back, a rear corner snug came into view. It was close to a window so there was enough light to see, even with the thick haze of smoke hanging in the air, that the bartender had been right in surmising that he was looking for Z Team.
There they were, the farthest thing from inconspicuous. Glen couldn't begin to guess how they had managed to be successful vampire slayers when everything about them drew attention and broadcasted vibes of this-is-your-last-chance-to-run. It was a message that floated around them like a diaphanous cloud of warning.
The four of them fit comfortably in a snug designed for eight. That was partly because of their size and partly because they had a casual way of draping arms and legs so that they took up more space than was normally allotted for a civilized person, even a large one. The posturing also communicated disdain for established notions of propriety. Glen knew instinctively that even the word "propriety" would make Black Swan's infamous misfits laugh out loud.
One of them was wearing a sleeveless shirt that had once been a denim jacket. His left arm had been transformed into a tattooed sleeve by an intricately inked mural of muted colors. Bare biceps seemed out of place in a part of the world where it was brittle-dick cold outside, but Glen supposed that if he'd made that much of an investment in ink he might want to show it off, too.
Glen's initial impression of the guy sitting next to Sleeve was that he should have the nickname, Dark, or Black. He wore black jeans, a black metal band shirt that was probably vintage, maybe collectable, and his spiky hair was so blue black it had to have been dyed that color. He was eye-catching, all that black paired with eyes so pale he could almost get away with going undercover as a vamp. He wasn't wearing eyeliner, but the contrast between his ice-color irises and those thick ebony lashes made his eyes pop in a dramatic way that probably drew interest from a lot of babes. The Black Knight. Glen smiled a little to himself, enjoying the company of his own voice in his head and his own offbeat sense of humor.
The third wore a plain gray long sleeve tee that covered his upper body, but Glen could see black ink climbing out of the neck of the guy's shirt, stopping just below his pronounced jaw line. Either tribal pattern or angel glyph. Hard to tell with just snake tails in view. He had a serious case of bed head going, maybe by design, maybe not, and one eyebrow that was raised and had been since he'd noticed Glen standing there watching them.
He said something to the others. Then the fourth, the one facing away with one long arm draped over the back of the snug, turned to look at Glen over his shoulder. That shift revealed elfin ears outlined by light brown hair with titian streaks. Same curl as Sir Hawking. Had to be Torrent Finngarick.
Somehow they looked exactly the way Glen had expected them to look. Hard. Tough. And like they belonged together. He was thinking, so they're Black Swan knights with a little bit of a nasty reputation. They put their pants on one leg at a time just like me. Right?
As internal pep talks go, it was adequate, but he just wasn't feeling it. Even so, he decided to stick with Plan A, which was taking life straight ahead, one step at a time. Glen had a reputation of his own for being easy-going, but he made an exception for passive aggressive nonsense. He didn't like it, didn't like people who habitually avoided the front door, and didn't mind letting his irritation with bullshit bubble over if it got to be too much.
Plan A it was. It meant walking straight up to them, stating his business, hoping for the best, but being prepared for the worst. That was the thought bouncing around in his mind as he observed their reactions to seeing him approach.
Once he was standing over them, he looked around the table and said, "I'm Glendennon Catch." Then he zeroed in on Torn. "Sorry for your loss, Sir Finngarick." He said "Sir" quietly enough so that only they heard him, but they got the message. Sir was a small little honorific that could also serve as code, as good as a secret handshake. "The office sent me with a message from the HR department."
They left him standing there for a minute without saying anything or changing expression. They just stared.
It was a thinly disguised intimidation strategy to get him to reveal nervousness, timidity, or some other weakness that would register as a flaw in their eyes. As tactics went, it was almost sure to get results, but not with somebody who had inherited a dominant werewolf gene. Glen could stand there all day breathing normally without flinching or looking away, patiently waiting for them to get tired of practicing Mind Fuck 101.
Finally, the big guy with the glyphs crawling up his neck grinned, showing dimples that seemed entirely out of place against the persona he'd so carefully crafted. "So go ahead and deliver your memo, Sweet Cheeks. We're listening."
The other three chuckled softly without taking their eyes off of him. Glen laughed openly and good-naturedly, but let the sound trail off and end in a low-level growl, incongruent with the smile on his face. The growl wasn't loud enough to draw attention from the wake-goers, but it was definitely heard by Z Team. They all sat up a little straighter and took another look at the kid. He had their interest, but that was worlds away from respect.
Looking at Glyphs, he said, "My briefing didn't mention that any of you are hard of hearing. If you want to call me by a name, it's Glen."
Finngarick's blue eyes twinkled in a way that brought Sir Hawking to mind, while the other two laughed at the fact that Glyphs had been challenged by a kid who was years away from growing into his lanky, big-boned frame.
"Long way to deliver a message. Would you no' have a pint with us then? Glen." He reached out with a long leg, put the toe of his scuffed boot through the leg brace of an unoccupied chair, pulled it closer to the snug, and waved toward it in a gesture of invitation. "We're no' much on formalities. Call me Torn."
Glen nodded then looked at the others. Torn pointed at the guy with the sleeves and said, "This is Gunnar. That's Raif." He raised his chin in the direction of 'black knight'. "The fella with the questionable personality is Bob."
"Gunnar. Raif, Torn, And Bob. No way."
Finngarick's eyes twinkled with that special sparkle that had elf written all over it. "Aye. Make no mistake. The bugger’s name is Bob."
Glen shook his head. "Let's rename him."
Finngarick looked at Bob and then back at Glen. "What we have here, gentlemen, is a cool, gloomy Irish day with no place to go and no' a thin' to do other than have another pint. So I say we should try playin’ Glen’s game. What would you be callin’ the man if ‘twas up to you, young emissary?" Glen shrugged. "Come now. No ideas?"
"Well, yeah, I sort of named him in my head on the walk across the bar."
"Pub," Torn corrected.
"Yes. Pub. Sorry."
Bob raised both brows. "I, for one, cannot wait to hear what you named me in your head on your walk across the... pub."
Glen looked at him with speculation trying to decide whether or not to tell the truth. "Glyphs."
While Bob studied Glen, his three teammates studied Bob in turn, like they were trying it on for size. Bob lowered his eyebrows and rolled his big shoulders in approval.
Finally Torn nodded as if to say he'd reached a conclusion. "Right you are. Now that you point it out, ‘tis plain as day he's no' a Bob. Glyphs suits him fine. Congratulations. You just nicknamed a knight. No’ an easy thin’ to do. Had he no’ liked it, well, shall we say ‘tis good he did."