Torn Finngarick called for a Guinness Extra Stout to be served to Glen, who wasn't used to alcohol at all and certainly wasn't ready for Irish black beer. He took a manly mouthful, thinking he had arrived, and promptly spewed it all over Torn in a spectacular demonstration of human fountain power. The other three members of Z Team laughed so hard they had to wipe tears.
"… almost as funny as the night that Chokarzi stripper puked half a gallon of half-digested Cuervo in your face. In the middle of a lap dance."
Glen borrowed a wet bar towel and offered it to Finngarick with a blush. "I'd offer to clean you up, but your file says you’re heterosexual."
Torn took the towel without a word, but with a glint of amusement in his eyes. When he was as clean as was possible without a shower and fresh clothes, he handed the towel to Glen. "Go get yourself somethin' else. Drinks are on me. Milk maybe?" he teased.
When Glen returned with a mug of root beer, no one asked him what was in the glass. Torn simply motioned to the chair. “So. They record sexual preference in our files, do they?”
Glen sat, but didn’t answer that question. "You're needed at Jefferson Unit. You're to accompany me to Fort Dixon after the funeral. Your things are being gathered and moved as we speak."
As Glen looked from one to another, he saw no discernible reaction. They were a cool bunch. He'd give them that.
Glyphs shrugged, saying, "New York's no worse than any other place. Maybe better than some."
Finngarick looked at Glen like he was a lab specimen on a microscopic slide. "Would you be happenin' to know why we're needed so urgently?"
Glen thought about it for a minute and decided there was no reason to withhold the truth. "Yes."
A ghost of a smile seemed to cross Finngarick's handsome elven face. "And will you be sharin' with us then?"
"Sorry. No."
Torn glanced at his teammates as if the four could communicate telepathically. "See. The thin' is, we're accustomed to hearin' The Order needs to sweep us further under the rug. No' brin' us into the light. We would no' be the least surprised if you came to say we're bein' transferred to Antarctica. But this? Naturally we're curious, you understand."
"Of course I understand. But I'm not at liberty to say."
Torn nodded thoughtfully. "Well, then. Might you be at liberty to say why you, in particular, were sent to escort us?"
It took Glen less than a second to process whether there could be ramifications to divulging that information. "The Jefferson Unit sovereign is retiring. I'm being given a try-out for his job. He sent me to get you." Z Team stared at Glen as if they were waiting for the punch line. Finally, he said, "No. Really."
Gunnar cleared his throat. "So. You're saying that, at some point, we could be calling you boss?"
Glen responded with a shit-eating grin so big, it begged for retaliation. Gunnar swept his gaze around the snug before it settled on Glen with a disturbing mix of challenge, mischief and amusement.
Torn leaned forward. "Seems we have limited time for the application of a right proper hazin' then, Glen."
Four sets of eyes darted to the movement in Glen's throat when he swallowed.
CHAPTER 1
"'Tis a good thin’ that Stormy and I put the bad in Bad Company, else the two of us might be intimidated by unhappy mates standin' o’er us with mean faces and hands on delectably curvy hips."
"I concur," added Storm.
"You can concur until the cows come home, Sir Storm, but you are still NOT playing in the Jefferson Unit Annual Rugby Match." Litha's voice was loud enough to make the babies get quiet and listen.
"Yeah. What she said." Elora couldn't really see what more could be added.
"We're playin'."
"We are," Storm confirmed.
"You. Are. Retired!" Elora countered.
"Retired is no' dead."
"And,” said Storm, “I'd like to add that we retired early. Lots of active duty hunters are older than we are and they'll be playing. There's never been a match that didn't have B Team represented and there's not going to be one this year either."