A Flight of Ravens by John Conroe (thriller books to read TXT) 📗

verify we had no tails.  Having a soldier who could scent intruders like a wolf made it extra easy.  Honestly, we didn’t believe that we were under surveillance in our own territory, but Welton needed the training and the reinforcement of caution.

Inside the house, Ash turned toward the cellar door, but I stopped him.  “Upstairs is more comfortable.  I had an extra big bed put in,” I said.

He growled, giving me a side-eye.  “First, no reason for you to be uncomfortable.  Second, if the Ravens ever figure out this location, I want you above ground and ready to escape.”

He grunted and it sounded curious.  “Not sure what that one means,” I said.

“I think he wonders if you’re disobeying orders,” Welton said.

Ash grunted an affirmative.  “How the hell did you figure that one out?” I asked the boy, who just shrugged.  “Remind me to keep you handy when we continue the debrief.  You seem to understand him best.”

The boy puffed up and smiled, first at me and then up at the fearsome visage of his monstrous relative.  “Come on, Uncle Ash. Let’s find your room,” he said, tugging him toward the stairs.

I let them go ahead while I pulled a ham from the cold food locker and added a loaf of bread.  After a second’s thought, I grabbed a second loaf and then took it all upstairs.

Ash was seated on the giant bedframe our guys had thrown together for him, cautiously testing if it could hold his bulk.  Welton was chatting away like a magpie.  Ash looked done in and I saw a couple of winces of pain when Welton wasn’t looking.

“Here’s some snacking food.  And a bundle of willow bark,” I said, holding up both hands when he lifted his head and pinned me with red eyes.  “Unaltered willow bark,” I said, taking a piece and shoving it in my mouth to chew.  The bitter taste ran down my throat, but I kept my expression clear.  He watched me closely, leaning forward to sniff my face, then leaned back and sniffed the bark.  Finally, he grunted and put the whole wad of bark in his toothy maw.  Not sure if he believed me or just thought getting drugged again might not be so bad.  Sorry to disappoint, old friend, but it was just bark.

“There’s water here,” Welton said, shaking the pitcher one of our people had left on the side table.

Ash turned to me and fixed both eyes on me and I had a flash of understanding.  From a small cupboard, I pulled a stout little bottle.  “Whiskey.”

His paw shot out and clamped over the neck of the bottle.  “Yeah, willow tastes like shit. All right; I have to get this lad to Treena or she’ll likely take a knife to me.”

He was already tipping the bottle into his mouth, half the liquor pouring out and down his chest but by the way his neck was bobbing, at least some made it inside. He grunted, put the now empty bottle down, and made another fast motion, both paws circling Welton in a flash.  Then he went deliberately very slow and gentle as he pulled the boy into a hug.

“Uncle Ash!” Welton protested.  “I’m gonna smell like whiskey,” he said, wiping off the side of his cheek.  “Momma will murder me.”

I pulled a kerchief and wiped the liquor off, then splashed some water from the pitcher on the cloth and scrubbed his boozy cheek.  “All better.  Just tell her you got splashed at the bar.  She’ll smell your breath and believe you.”

Both woldling and boy looked at me with surprise and curiously similar looks of admiration.  “Not my first tournament, gentlemen. Now, let’s get a move on.”

Welton hugged his uncle fiercely, which was an odd sight.  The towering woldling, clawed hands carefully patting the small boy who squeezed the woolly monster with all his might.  Finally, the lad’s muscles gave out and he released Ash.  “Okay, I’m going home to guard Momma and Auntie Sissa,” he said, swiping his sleeve across his face.  “You sleep good, alright?”

Ash grunted, holding out one giant hand, palm up.  Welton put his own hand atop it, palm down.  They held like that for moment and then after about three seconds, Welton’s hand went up in as big an arc as he could make it and Ash’s went down.

The boy was quiet as we walked through the snow-dusted streets of Haven.  A few people were out and about but they were locals who I recognized immediately.

“You okay?” I asked.

“What’s going to happen?”

“With what?”

“Uncle Ash.”

“I don’t know.  All I know is a very short time ago, I was convinced he was dead.  He isn’t.  He’s alive and safe.  I have found, Welton, that in life and especially in this line of work, which you do not need to follow, by the way, that we can only answer a few of our questions and control only some of our environment.  The rest we have to handle as it comes.  Having your uncle home, whether missing a leg, an eye, half his mind, or in his current form, is better than not having him at all.  From here on, we’ll just have to handle what comes.”

He went quiet, thinking hard as we covered the short distance to his aunt’s home.  When we got there, he rapped on the door.  “Momma, it’s me.”

The door whisked open, revealing Treena Upton.  Dark-haired like her boys and rather short, but with very bright blue eyes.  Behind her, one hand holding her very pregnant belly, was Sissa Newberry. Taller than average, she was a good height for her husband.  Her black hair was short and straight, her skin almost a caffe color that spoke to ancestors from the south, and her eyes were a color of brown so light that they appeared to be copper. She’s a very striking woman by most standard, but her strength is not just in her arms but more in her heart.

Treena grabbed her son in a tight hug