//Continued from the Sanctuary: Rec Room//
Tom's Mustang appeared like the gleaming black nose of some smoothly prowling thing, its ripped engine rumbling as he guided it up the Sanctuary's hidden ramp. The bay doors slid shut with his passage, strangling vines and creeper falling behind him to drape the opening in shadow, keeping it safe from prying eyes. He hit the gas; the motor gunned, snarling, and the Mustang rolled through twisting shadows, down alleyways and past empty warehouses until it reached the main grid of streets.
With a light touch, Tom and his car melted into city traffic.
"Dimitri, but just ask for Makris." Tom turned Dominic's instructions over in his mind. "Owns a place called Bacchus. Trance club, I think. Down in SoHo, address is right there." Easy enough, although the idea of doing business in a fucking trance club rated right up there with having a root canal performed with a rusty spoon.
Tom chuckled darkly to himself and rolled down the window; the night air ghosted over him like a frozen kiss. Long fingers searched the pocket of his coat, extracting a hand-rolled cigarette. He tucked it in his teeth and lit it off his hand. The tip flared in the dark--one more point of light amid the endless lights of the city. Endless flats, people without number, shops and stories and families...
...and then there was his own bastard family, down by one.
He exhaled smoke, the blue-gray cloud uncoiling from his mouth. There were no words for how he felt, no single explanation in all the King's godforsaken English (or fucking Irish, for that matter) that could encompass the bleeding, delirious triumph pounding inside his heart. Sean. Dead. He'd dreamed it, tasted it, wanted it for so fucking long it had almost lost its meaning. It was like wanting heaven, or wanting the moon. You could covet the thing all you bloody well wanted, but to have it given to you...?!
He was hard as a rock, he realized. Fucking randy as a pony. The thought made his lips peel back from his teeth in a vicious grin. This was what triumph felt like, what winning felt like. This was the way the world ended and a new fucking world began. It turned his thoughts inward, deeper, scraping ragged claws at a whisper of memory, a recollection of other pleasures, and almost without realizing it, Tom's hand slid inside the pocket of his coat. It was a casual gesture, an unthinking one, until his fingertips touched fine metal teeth. Sleek silver, warmed by his body heat.
His bit of luck in Colorado.
A slow, thoughtful grin tugged one corner of his mouth.
At the next light, Tom turned around.
The way back was an easy one. He remembered the street, the building itself, and traffic in the neighborhood was light. Tom waited until he was on the right block before fishing out his phone, then he brought the Mustang to a rumbling park outside the brownstone. His smile was wolfish and not entirely pleasant, but good-humored all the same, and he dialed the lass' number with an amused eye on the well-lit front of the house.
//Continued and Xposted in Emma's Brownstone: MA's Room//