IT’D BEEN a hell of a long time since I’d last seen Jerem Samms. He recognized me, dusky sloe eyes widening when he spotted me sitting next to Hernandez, and a quirk of a cocky smile dug into his left cheek, pulling up a familiar dimple. The swagger was still there too, his shoulders rolling slightly in time with the long strides he took. Armed with a sawed-off shotgun tucked into a back holster, he was given a bit of room by an old man scuttling out of the door, the wild-haired hermit shuffling quickly out of Samms’s reach.
Dressed in pretty much standard Stalker gear—jeans, boots, and a heavy leather jacket—Samms wore his passing years well. There was more silver than brown in his hair now. I could see it more clearly as he got closer, and a few flecks glistened in the several-days-old beard on his more weathered face. He’d lost the cowboy hat at some point, or maybe he’d left it in his ride, its dragon-scale-studded band something he’d been very proud of, having come away from a sand lizard fight with a handful of silver dots and a thin scar running down to the right of his eye and over his cheek, a souvenir from one of the dragon’s dew claws.
Samms was definitely more seasoned, experience adding to his confidence, and the slight imperfections of his face, like the white scar line on his cheek and his twice-or-more-struck Roman nose, only added to the man’s allure. He drew the eye in a different way than Ryder, but unlike the lordling sitting next to me, Samms liked the attention he drew, even tinted with caution and nervousness. The man I’d known enjoyed living on the edge, and he carried that razor sharpness with him, promising trouble even before he opened his mouth to speak.
“Damn, you have not aged one bit, have you, Gracen.” Samms smelled of the desert, leather, and gun oil, as familiar to me as the bite of electricity in the air from a coming storm. There were crow’s-feet at the edges of his dark eyes, but his gaze was still sharp, slicing over to rest on Ryder for a brief moment, then over to Hernandez when Samms gave the man a quick nod. “Didn’t get the ping on my link that another Stalker was in, Chief.”
“Must have forgotten to send it, considering they were hauling in someone from a black dog attack.” Hernandez slowly stood up, snagging his coffee from the table. “Didn’t seem as important as getting the kid to the medics, but I’ll make sure that’s taken care of right now. Gracen, stop by the duty desk to get the key to your bunk. And good to meet you, sir. The food here is probably more plain than you’re used to, but it will stick to your ribs. Just avoid the lettuce. Not too sure where they get it from, but it always gives me a stomachache.”
Samms didn’t step aside for Hernandez, forcing the border officer to brush past him to get out. It was the kind of dick thing he’d do to people in a pub and something I’d have thought he’d outgrow at some point, but I guess I was wrong. He waited until Hernandez walked out of the cafeteria before sliding into his abandoned chair, giving me another slow smile and leaning on the table with his elbows.
“Taking on apprentices now, Gracen? Decided you got sick of humans and got one of your own?” The edge on his voice felt easy, as if I’d been the one who’d put distance between us. Or maybe I had, but I had quite a few damned good reasons for it. Samms held out his hand to Ryder, his arm stretched in front of me. “Stalker Jerem Samms. Who are you?”
“Ryder.” The lordling took Samms’s hand firmly. I waited for the litany of titles and bloodlines the Sidhe habitually used to introduce themselves, but it didn’t come. Instead, Ryder said, “And I’m not Kai’s apprentice. I’m….” He flicked a glance toward me, measuring his words. “His friend.”
“Friend?” Samms snorted, releasing Ryder’s hand. “Gracen doesn’t have friends. He has ex-lovers, soon-to-be ex-lovers, and the four or five people he trusts to have a gun behind him. But none of them are friends.”
“Then I am sorry you do not truly know Kai, because he has many friends,” Ryder replied smoothly, the expression on his face as diplomatically placid as I’d ever seen it, but his smile was carved straight out of his grandmother’s haughty arsenal. “And I am glad to be counted among them.”
I was caught between them, both smooth liars when they wanted to be, and I never thought I’d be in a position where an elfin sitting at the table was the more trustworthy, but the man to the right of me was definitely the one I’d prefer to have behind me holding a gun. I might question his aim but never his intent. I couldn’t say the same for Samms. Sure as hell not after what he tried to do to me.
“How long has it been since we sat down together, Gracen?” Samms smiled at the harried young server who came by to refill our coffees, asking her to bring him a cup when she had time. He was charming, giving her his best charismatic façade, and she blushed and hurried away with a promise to come back. Waiting until she was out of earshot, he turned back to me. “Twenty years? Twenty-five?”
“About that.” I did a quick mental accounting. “Seen you afterwards, of course, but didn’t give enough of a shit to stop and talk.”
“You always did hold a grudge.” Chuckling, he took the coffee cup from the server as she passed by, thanking her with a flash of white teeth. “Gracen tell you about me, Ryder?”
“He’s never even mentioned you,” Ryder remarked softly, adding sugar to his refilled cup. “And we’ve had plenty of time to talk.”
“We should check on Malone.” I drained my coffee cup, swallowing the hot brew quickly. “Then get the room before they give it away to someone else. A Stalker’s badge means shit if there’s a cute, wide-eyed kid with a sob story for the guys sitting at the desk. Grab what food we can carry with us and leave the rest.”
“You never said what you’re doing up here,” Samms said, reaching forward to touch my arm. His hand hovered, nearly brushing the back of mine before I pulled away. “Things so calm down in SoCal you’ve come into Nevada to do some hunting?”
It wouldn’t do any harm to tell him, and considering I was in his backyard, Samms would be a good source for info. He liked to share, sometimes too much, and even though I couldn’t trust him to have my back, he was always honest about being in it for himself. In a lot of ways, he was a hell of a lot more trustworthy than the Sebac.
“Not on a run. Dempsey died last week.” I stopped, trying to count the days when the lump in my throat lodged itself in so tight I couldn’t swallow without choking on my own spit. Samms looked like he was going to say something, but I stopped him with a shake of my head. “Old man’s gone. Nothing more to talk about except heading up to New Vegas to give some of his ashes to his brother, Kenny. We were on our way when we stopped for some automat food and Sarah’s nephew, Robbie, came up over the ridge with a black dog hot on his ass. He took some hits, so we pulled in here to get out of the storm and to dump him on the medics. Once it’s clear, we’ll be heading up, then back down.”
“Ken Dempsey?” Samms frowned mockingly, pursing his lips. “Short dude. Potbelly. Looks like someone built your fake dad using the really shitty, saggy bits? That one?”
“Yeah, unless he’s changed much.” I stood up, hoping Ryder would catch the hint that we were leaving. The lordling was busy stacking paper dishes together, holding them tight enough to bend their lips, making sure there definitely wasn’t any room for anything to leak out. “Haven’t seen him in a while, but Dempsey kept up with him. Told me where to find him.”