Page 16 of Queen Crow
“I can handle that. I can definitely get behind that. How did Crawford look? He’ll be back glowering at us all in no time, I’m sure.”
I glance around, but Harley parked the Escalade two houses over and they’re all piling out slowly. “He’s not any better. He’s not any worse though so… I guess we can be hopeful. What exactly is happening here? This looks like a house party, not a funeral.”
“It’s an Irish wake. The drinking is part of it.”
I look around, there’s a quiet moment for us both with everyone else busy with each other so I step into his body, sliding my hands under his coat and burying my face into the warmth of his chest. “It’s a stupid part of it. Why would you want the grief and the hangover mixing? That sounds like torture.”
He huffs out a dry laugh and it’s a sad sort of noise. “That’s probably the point of it. The Irish are a morbid lot when death and religion come into play. You should head home, get clean and tucked up into that big princess bed of yours. I’ll come ‘round tomorrow.”
His words are rough with an accent the longer he’s here with his family, it’s a little too charming for the day of Jack’s funeral for my tastes. “It’s just a bed, you need more pillows for aesthetics.”
Harley scoffs at me as he stalks over to us, handing Aodhan a glass of something that looks distinctly home-brewed. Aodhan pulls away from me to take it, sculling down half of it without taking a breath or pulling a face at just how strong it must be.
This is the part of Harley’s childhood that I never had a window into, not until now, and it’s weird to be locked out of something when it comes to him.
“Everything you do is princess-flavored, Floss. That’s kind of your thing. I can find you a cocktail if you’re going to stay and do this properly.”
I look around again at the family, all of them rowdy and loud and entirely inappropriate for any sort of funeral I’ve ever attended before. It feels like family. It feels warm and loving and like everything we all need.
Codladh sámh, Jack.
Chapter Five
I lose two days to Jack’s wake.
I’ve never seen Harley get that drunk before, and there must be something extra in the moonshine that was passed around because even Ash passed out from it.
Lips is the only one who didn’t over-indulge.
When I wake up, somehow in my own bed, two days later, I find her perched on my bedside with a giant cup of coffee and a stack of blueberry pancakes.
My favorite.
She holds a finger to her lips, which confuses me until I try to move and find out that Aodhan is in the bed with me, an arm slung over my naked body.
I have zero recollection of ending up back here or how we both are naked, but I’m glad that Lips is the only one coming to get me. She grins at me and leaves me to get up, wrapping a robe around myself and trying not to wake Aodhan with my groaning.
When I get out into the hallway, she hands me the coffee and waits while I gulp it back like a dying woman. “Marry me.”
She scoffs at me. “Your brother would fight you for my hand. He’s told me that before, drunk off his ass.”
I giggle, because of course he has, and then I take the plate of pancakes from her as well. “You’re the best. Are we going to plot some murder together, for old times’ sake?”
“Of course. I’ll grab coffee refills, head down to the dungeon.”
I roll my eyes at her ridiculous name for my panic room basement, but she doesn’t need to ask me twice. Another coffee is exactly what I need right now, and dammit if she doesn’t know how to make it exactly right.
I pick at the plate of food on my way down, mentally promising myself that I’ll vacuum the moment my head stops throbbing like a fucking wound. The marble floors are icy on my bare feet and I curse myself for not grabbing slippers.
It’s difficult to open the staircase entry with one hand and limbs that don’t want to cooperate, but I get it working, cursing under my breath, right as Lips arrives with two cups of coffee.
Cups is an understatement, they’re more like buckets.
“You should really drink more often because this is kind of adorable,” she says, all sarcasm and dripping wit.
I glare back at her but when I take one of the cups from her, she grabs my elbow so I don’t land on my face as we head down the stairs together.
As I flick the lights on and then regret having eyeballs as the sharp pain slices into my brain, Lips sits crosslegged in front of the murder wall. She leaves her coffee on the ground next to her as she leans back on her arms, squinting at each photo the same way I have for months, as though it will somehow suddenly tell us what to do here.