I shake my head, thinking rapidly. “It’ll be fine. We can fix it. Or maybe—”
“Or maybe we’ll tell him that we got assaulted by some absolutely insane lady and nearly got killed.”
“That might work.”
“Fuck.” She leans back, cradling the destroyed mask in her lap. “All that for nothing.”
“We’ll work it out. We’ll go to him together—”
“No, I’ll do it alone.”
My jaw tenses. “Blair. We made a deal.”
“Somewhere public. He likes me, Baptist.”
“Funny. I’m not sure that man likes anyone.”
She shakes her head. “He does. Just let me talk to him.” She goes silent after that and I drive faster, anger rolling down my spine, replacing the excitement with rage.
That fucker nearly got us killed, again, and she thinks she can reason with a madman.
Chapter8
Blair
Cowan throws a handful of bread out to a group of pigeons. He stares at them intently like he’s trying to learn something important from the way they mill around in a tight group. I remain a few feet away, arms crossed, the mask shards in a bag at my hip. I’m terrified of showing him what happened, but he’s more interested in bread and birds right now, and I’m in no hurry to break the news.
“I find these creatures fascinating,” he says, gesturing at the pigeons. “They are ubiquitous in this city. Disgusting animals, really. They’re flying rats, and yet they’re resilient. They survive in an environment so deeply divorced from the environment they were supposed to live within. A lot like people.”
“Yes, Cowan. People are giant pigeons. Got it. Is that another movie?”
He smiles and shakes his head like I’m an idiot. “No, suit, it’s not another movie. Where’s my mask?”
I hesitate and hold the bag up. “You knew somebody would be there, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course. Lucille is my aunt.”
“She’s your aunt? She’s got to be at least—”
“Ninety-two, yes. Did she offer you cookies? Lucille is quite the baker.” He gestures impatiently. “Give me the mask.”
“Lucille didn’t offer us cookies.” I stare at him in total exasperation. “She tried to kill us.”
He frowns, head tilted. “That’s strange.”
“Imagine how I feel. She came downstairs with a shotgun—”
“Ah, you met Hank. Named after her late husband. He was a real bastard.”
“—and started shooting. What is wrong with your family? Why do you people love to shoot things indoors?”
“It’s tradition.” He turns to me fully and crosses his arms. “Where’s the mask, suit?”
“It’s broken. I smashed it when your insane aunt was shooting at me with a gun named after her dead husband. Sorry.” I toss him the bag. He catches it, frowning curiously, and looks inside.
“That’s a shame. It really was late republic-era Roman. I suppose it belonged in a museum.” He shrugs, walks to a trash can, and throws the entire bag inside.
I stare, mouth hanging open. “Even broken, it’s still an artifact!”