Rhapsody

17: silk charmeuse

The moon is in first quarter tonight. Maverick can see the glowing face as it peaks above the tops of the old buildings. It's half eclipsed—near light but not quite there—shedding silver beams that cover every inch of brick and iron in this city like a disease.

Peony flowers aren't in season in January. Maverick paid extra for the bouquet in his fist. They're a soft pink, and not too dull around the edges. Only the best for his mother.

The last time he visited the graveyard, sorrow clanged in his chest like a gong, and all he could do was tear open his throat to release his frustrations to the air. Tonight, though, he is numb. Unfeeling. Maverick doesn't need to speak to his mother this time around. Somehow he thinks she knows exactly what he would say. Somehow, he feels it's enough to sit here in silence, awash in the pale glow of the moon and the amber rays of a nearby streetlight.

The air in the city is crisp and cold. The wind whips at Maverick's locks and nips at his nose, but he ignores it. If he closes his eyes and focuses, his lungs are still burning and he's knuckle deep in Emery's red blood as it blossoms from his bullet wound and cascades from his cracked skull.

Maverick hasn't seen his partner for a few hours. Once the medics got to him, he was gone. He knows the wolf will be fine—he knows—and yet his hands still tremble.

If Emery wasn't there, Maverick would be dead. Plain and simple. Maverick saw those silver eyes glinting like metal, just before Emery barreled through the window. He thinks some part of him should be repulsed, shouting things like monster, monster, monster. But it doesn't feel right.

Emery saved his life.

The thought chills him to the bone. If his partner saved his life, maybe all these terrible apprehensions of the past week were never about him. Maybe the problem has always been Maverick. Maybe it's his exhumed corpses, his unburied dead, the bones rattling like chimes in his closet. Maybe he's fucked in the head. Maybe he's a coward. Maybe he's a fool.

His fingers are near frozen around his phone. He hardly realizes he'd been dialing his father's number. No one answers.

He dials Callum's number, too, but hangs up before he can pick up. He shoves his phone in his pocket. It's almost dead, and, truth be told, Maverick doesn't really want to talk to his brother anyway.

He lights a cigarette instead, since Emery's not here to tell him not to. Maverick reckons his partner would rather not know how the smoke warms his throat.

The old iron gate to the church graveyard creaks and Maverick strains his ears. His hands don't immediately fly to his gun, but after the day he's had, they're ready to. He stares at the peonies. They've become muddied, but that's to be expected of a night like this. He stares—looking but not seeing. Listening. Soft footsteps approach from behind.

Someone drapes a coat around his shoulders. It's Callum. It has to be. No one else knows about this place. Maverick expects his brother to say something, but he remains silent. Warm wool envelops him.

And then he leaves.

The footsteps fade again, and everything is quiet. Maverick continues to crouch beside his mother's grave. Smoke curls up towards the violet clouds, and his chest tightens. Callum isn't his favorite person—he's a real dickhead, if Maverick is being honest—but he's still his brother. He'd never hear the end of it if he bathed Callum's coat in cigarette smoke, especially not after the guy has come to save his ass twice now.