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“It was silver,” one offers, shifting on his feet.
“Cheers,” Callen says, tossing his lighter at them. “You didn’t see us, okay? Get back to your game.”
They nod and scurry off, already bickering over who gets to use their new treasure first.
“I know a pub near here,” Callen says as we reach the car. He slings Torean’s kill kit into the boot and gets into the driver’s seat. “How about we have a celebratory pint?”
I slam the passenger door hard after me. “Celebratory?”
Didn’t he hear that Ivy got into a stranger’s car? This isn’t the time for celebrations!
“We killed Trout. That’s what she wanted,” he says nonchalantly as we pull away from the kerb. “That’s cause for celebration, and I’m parched.”
Trout was dead, but we’d lost Ivy in the process. My chest aches, remembering the look of hurt and disappointment in her eyes when she learned of my betrayal and worst of all? I know that I fucking deserved it.
I say nothing as Callen drives.
“The pub’s just up here,” he says, coming to a stop. “We can re-group.”
I follow Callen out of the car and up the road, not arguing because I’m too busy thinking about what we’re going to do next. On the way, I try calling Seb and Bram. No answer. Seb’s likely schmoozing guests at the wake or trying his best to avoid his family, and Bram will still be sulking from missing out on the action. My stomach churns. How will he react when he finds out what happened?
“Come on,” Callen calls over his shoulder, already ten steps ahead. I trudge along behind him like I’m part of a funeral procession. “Keep up!”
The pub is a complete dive and looks like it hasn’t changed in the last fifty years. When we push the door open, we’re hit by the smell of smoke that must have buried itself within the soft furnishings despite the smoking ban being in place for some time. A few day drinkers sit in gloomy corners, nursing their pints. They’re mainly older men with deep wrinkles and yellowed irises who are likely the reason the place has stayed open for so long. Men with nothing left to live for, aside from seeking happiness in the tables of empty glasses surrounding them.
“Cal!” the man behind the bar, who must be in his eighties, yells. He stops wiping a glass with a grubby tea towel when he spots us. “Your usual?”
“Two pints of your finest ale,” Callen replies, sliding into a booth next to the grimy window.
“How often do you come here?” I murmur, reluctantly sitting next to him. At least we don’t have to worry about blood transferring to these seats. The brown fabric is already filthy and hides a multitude of stains.
“Not in five years,” Callen replies, “but the landlord has dementia.”
Well, that explains it.
A few minutes later, two glasses of cloudy brown ale are slapped down in front of us.
“On the house,” he says. “For breaking up that brawl last time you were here.”
“No,” Callen insists, pulling a crinkled twenty from his pocket. “For you.”
The landlord chuckles but doesn’t object and takes it from him.
“That’s generous of you,” I say.
Callen isn’t usually one to pass up a free drink.
He shrugs. “Let’s just say I wasn’t so generous last time I came here…”
I push the unappealing liquid away as Callen drinks his. The beer sloshes down his beard, and he wipes it with the back of his hand.
“Nothing like a bit of murder to work up a thirst,” he says.
I ignore him and try calling the others. Still nothing.
I text Bram:
Where are you?
