Page 27 of Spooked (31 Days of Trick or Treat: Biker & Mobster #13)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MOUSE

Reluctantly, I drive Hound back to the compound.

It may be wrong, but I’m questioning leaving Maeve alone when there’s something inside of me that says we should have stayed there to support her.

I know Hound’s feeling guilty, blaming himself for telling too much to her, so much that it seemed to cause her heart to stop.

In his mind, he thinks he almost killed her. It’s obvious, he’s drifted off to sleep and is murmuring words that are hard to make out, but enough so I know he’s dreaming about her, shifting restlessly and repeating something like, take my hand, Maeve, I’m here.

Brought up as an all-American boy, I lived in Tucson until I was in my teens and my dad died.

My mom was a proud Navajo, but she’d been swept off her feet by a white man.

Taken away from the reservation, she’d brought me up with no knowledge of her side of the family.

I knew nothing of the conflict within her, only knowing she’d embraced the modern American life, until my dad left us.

I went from being a nerd kid who liked nothing more than playing computer games to being uprooted and living on a reservation with the Navajo side of my family, with barely any electricity and no Wi-Fi in sight.

I didn’t fit in. At first, I rebelled, refused to accept my changed life, until I began to learn I was neither white man nor Native, but something in between.

Gradually, my new world began to make sense, and I began to marry both halves.

Things that Tse, the kid who was brought up in Tucson, would scoff and laugh at started to become second nature to the Tse living with my Navajo relatives.

Skinwalkers, a concept I’d first scoffed at, became a reality to me, along with other things we can’t name or even see, but which walk among us.

It made more sense to me than the Anglo’s religion.

Unlike white folks, the Navajo encourage visions and place meaning on dreams.

If any other of my Satan’s Devils brothers had heard what Hound had to say, then they’d certainly believe he was simply suffering the effects of his traumatic brain injury. With me, though, the jury’s still out.

I ponder puzzle pieces, loving nothing more than finding snippets of information, and then rearranging them again and again until they form a complete picture.

Combine that with my beliefs that there’s more to the world than we could ever imagine, and I didn’t immediately dismiss Hound’s apparent ravings out of hand.

It was when I researched and discovered the truth behind the things he couldn’t possibly have known that I knew I was needed to help and support him.

The module in my truck triggers the gate to automatically open as we approach. In the past, we used to have the prospects man it. Now they do so, but from comfortable surroundings, observing a screen. As normal for anything with four wheels, I pull up behind the shop.

Hound jerks awake as the vehicle stops. Rubbing his eyes, he looks at me apologetically. “Hell, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to drop off.”

“You’re exhausted. No one can blame you.” Glancing at him, concerned, wondering whether I should have driven further up the track, I ask, “You okay to walk from here, Brother?”

“Of course, I fuckin’ am.” As if to prove it, Hound doesn’t wait for me to open his door and help him. He gets out by himself and, balancing on his good leg, manages to get his crutches from the rear seat. It means I end up a pace behind him as he swings and hops his way up the slope.

When it looks like he intends to bypass the clubhouse, I catch up. “Come in, Brother. Get a drink. You don’t want to be alone.”

He pauses, wavers for a moment, takes a longing look up the rest of the incline that leads to his house, then there’s that slow dip and rise of his head that I’m waiting for.

Holding the clubroom door open for him, I’m relieved he’s stopping by.

Being alone and lost in his head isn’t helpful right now.

Hound thinks it’s his brain playing tricks on him. I think it’s something else. Rather than something to be feared, it could be a portal has opened to him. Or, it was always there, and his damaged synapses have finally let him see it.

“Mouse!” Drummer, standing by the bar, raises his hand and beckons me over.

I steer my companion that way. He raises his chin as I draw close.

“Was wondering where you got to, Mouse. Coke.” The last, accompanied by a head jerk, is to the prospect behind the bar.

Then, to the man accompanying me, “Beer, Hound?” As Hound nods, the prospect has a bottle opened and ready without being asked.

Me with my soda, Hound, now perched on the barstool with his beer, and Drummer sipping sedately at his notorious top-shelf scotch, we drink in comfortable silence for a moment.

“Brothers,” comes a deep voice.

I don’t need to turn to identify the speaker. It’s Peg. As he comes alongside, I see Blade has entered with him.

When Drummer, Peg, Wraith and Blade had stepped down from their officer roles, I’d have been willing to go with them, but while Wizard, our prez, my brother-in-law’s computer skills now exceed mine, I was asked to stay on.

Not that I’ve ever been an official officer, but I’ve an important tech role on the team.

Likewise, Dollar, our treasurer, wasn’t allowed to retire, as there was no one better to take his role.

But it’s a bit like old times now, us F.O.G.s, as the youngsters call us, sticking together and, while the young‘uns heal, take back the direction of the club.

“Hey, Wraith,” Drummer calls out. “Wondered if you were going to join the party.”

“Not much of a fuckin’ party,” Wraith comments as he draws close, accepting the beer the prospect offers. He glances at me, Peg, Drummer, and then Blade. “Thought we’d at least have some fun while the young ‘uns were getting themselves together. This place has been quiet as the grave.”

Blade flexes his arthritic hands, grimacing as he does so. “Be careful what you wish for, VP.” His mouth quirks. Like the rest of them, Wraith’s only stepping back into this role temporarily.

Hound murmurs something into his beer.

“What was that, Bro?” Peg asks.

“I said you can have your old job back permanently. I won’t be riding as sergeant-at-arms again.” As mouths fall open around him, he pauses, then adds, “If I ride at all.”

“Snap out of it, man,” Drummer barks. “Sure, you’ve got enough metal in your leg to set off a detector at twenty feet, but you’ll heal and will be riding again.”

Peg’s face is going red. “You’ve got a broken leg, Hound. Bad as it might be, at least you’ve got two working lower limbs. You really want to go there when it’s me you’re talking to?”

Uh uh. Peg’s been living and riding with a prosthetic leg for years. Never stopped him from being the best damn sergeant-at-arms in the club.

As Hound raises his hand to his head, I go to preempt whatever he’s going to say with a warning. Moving in close, I hiss at him, “Don’t say a fuckin’ word.” But I know he’s not going to heed me. “Hound,” I growl again.

Drummer’s steely eyes harden as he looks from me to Hound. “What’s going on?”

But at the precise moment Hound opens his mouth to probably lay the extent of what he perceives to be his brain injury in front of them, instead of speaking, his eyes glaze over, his jaw slackens, and as if in slow motion, he slips to the floor.

If it wasn’t for Drummer’s quick thinking, he’d have fallen flat on his face.

As it is, our temporary prez gently lets him down to the ground.

“Call 911,” Peg barks to the prospect.

“No!” I say sharply.

“No? What the fuck do you mean?” His steely eyes bore into me as he repeats his request. “Call for a bus, Prospect.”

“Put the damn phone down,” I yell at Razza. “Drummer, there are things you don’t know.”

“I fuckin’ know I’ve got an injured man lying unconscious on the floor,” he growls. As he starts to gesture to Razza again, I grab hold of his hand.

He swings me around and has my back against the bar. “You want him to die?”

“Fuck no I don’t want that. But there’s more to this, Drummer.”

“You better start fuckin’ talking, Mouse.” He holds onto the side of my cut and shakes me.

I speak fast. “Hound thinks he’s suffering from a TBI, but that’s not all that’s going on, Prez.

” At his raised brow, I continue, “Bullet sent him to visit the Sullivan House, an abandoned mansion in the foot of the hills. He was fine until he went there, and a fuckin’ mess since he came back.

There’s something wrong there, Drummer.”

He straightens, sending a look to Peg, then to Wraith and Blade. “What are they doing at that fuckin’ house? Making meth?”

Taking a breath to centre myself, I try to find the words that could possibly help me explain the situation to my brothers in the club.

They’re one hundred percent Anglo, brought up differently from me, without the Native blood running in their veins.

Had I not been taken to the reservation when I was a teen, I’d have probably been viewing the situation exactly the same as them.

“There are things outside of our experience,” I start, choosing my words carefully. “Some things aren’t black and white, and not all time follows a continuum.”

“Speak fuckin’ English, Bro,” Blade admonishes. I don’t miss the knife that’s appeared in his right hand. Even though his fingers are bent, he’s still managing to juggle it expertly. “All I can see is that we’ve got a man down and you don’t want to raise a finger to help him.”

“Hound thinks he’s been hallucinating. I think it’s more than that.” I take a deep breath, hoping they remember my history, and the years they’ve ridden with me, and don’t immediately summon the men in white coats with strait jackets to take me away. “I think he’s seen spirits.”

“Whisky? Brandy?” Peg quips.

Drummer waves his hand at him. “You serious, Mouse?”

Before I can answer, Hound starts moving at our feet, not regaining consciousness, but moving in an agitated way. His hands come up as if to battle an enemy, and out of his mouth comes a stricken plea, “Maeve, don’t go in there. Keep back!”

With the exception of Peg, who has only one working leg, he’s not so agile, the rest of us fall to our knees with a variety of creaks that show our age.

“Hound,” I admonish, giving him a shake. “Hound. What the fuck’s happening?”

I almost fall back on my heels as he opens his eyes, catches mine, his wide with distress as he says clearly, “Maeve’s at the house. She needs help.”

“Maeve?” Drummer snaps.

Quickly, I fill him in while at the same time helping Hound to his feet as he’s struggling to get up on his own.

“Maeve’s a woman who has a connection to that fuckin’ house, and she was in a coma at the exact same time as him.

” Passing Hound his crutches, I try to get Drummer on side.

“I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but Maeve and Hound met in their dreams, while they were unconscious.

” Drummer’s eyes go to the heavens, Blade barks a laugh, and Peg snorts.

Wraith is just watching me warily. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, but if Hound thinks Maeve’s at the house and that she’s in danger, well, that’s enough for me.

” Hound’s frantically trying to get loose from my hold, so to him I say, “I got you, Brother. I’m coming with you. ”

“He needs a hospital.” Wraith steps in front of us, barring our way.

“He needs to see this through,” I contradict, my arm around Hound, feeling how tense and wound up he is.

Drummer’s eyes glare into me. “You really taking him to the Sullivan House?”

Hound speaks for himself, clearly having regained some strength. “If he doesn’t, I’ll drive myself. Ain’t no one stopping me. I’ve got to get to Maeve.”

His challenge stands for nothing. He’s a one-legged man, helpless if anyone takes his crutches away.

“Oh fuck it,” Blade states, grinning widely.

“We’ve got a sergeant-at-arms who thinks he’s seeing things, and believing he has to go rescue a damsel in distress.

” He waves his hand around at the decorations in the clubhouse, put there for the kids who had a party earlier.

“It’s fuckin’ Halloween. I’m up for a ghost hunt. I’m going with Mouse.”

Wraith’s still blocking our route. I hesitate before ploughing through him and pushing him out of our way, especially when I see him give a querying glance toward Drummer.

Drummer sighs loudly, places his whisky glass down on the bar with a thump, then shakes his head.

“So either Wizard’s got a sergeant-at-arms with a traumatic brain injury that will end his ride with the Devils, or he’s really been seeing ghosts.

” He shakes his head. “Can’t believe I’m fuckin’ saying this, but I’m coming with you.

Got to sort this out one way or another. ”

“Not leaving me out,” Peg states.

“Life’s been too fuckin’ boring,” Blade says. “Lead the way.”

Wraith’s eyes gleam. “Kids have too much fun on Halloween. Think it’s time us old men got in on that.” He flexes his gnarly hands. “Ghost hunting? Bring it the fuck on.”