There was just a brief moment where he imagined the boy leaping into his arms.
The cigarette slipped from his fingers and rolled into the street from a gust of wind. This was the first time he’d seen his son in person without a mask, and it splintered his heart. He’d memorized the picture on his phone, but now he could see every familiar contour—a blend of two people who had once loved each other deeply.
He had Shepherd’s crazy hair—one reason Shepherd kept his own trimmed short. On the kid, it was tousled and made him look like a Lost Boy from Neverland. It had always appeared black indoors, but outside, it had more dimension and subtle layers of dark brown. Judging by his pale skin, Shepherd thought he probably didn’t get out in the sunshine much.
The boy slowed to a stop by a brown mechanical horse, and they greeted each other like old pals. With feverish haste he climbed aboard, his eyes alight with daydreams of cowboys and wild mustangs hot on his heels.
Shepherd tried not to stare at the scar on his face, the one that started near the outside corner of his left eye and curved across his cheek to his nose. At the far end of the shopping strip, through the fog, Shepherd observed two black cars that were a little too upscale for this neighborhood.
A fleeting urge to kidnap his own son overtook him. But the thought disintegrated when the kid smiled gleefully and kicked his heels against the frozen horse. Shepherd guessed he was the average height for a five-year-old, and he seemed strong and smart like a little man. A lifetime of stolen memories flashed in his mind—late nights with the baby cradled under one arm and a book in the other, Maggie giving him his first bottle. Shepherd would never know if Maggie would have eventually formed a permanent life with him, but Patrick had destroyed all those possibilities. He had stolen those first steps and first words.
Shepherd drifted toward the mechanical horse. The kid was too old for that thing; only toddlers rode them on the rare occasion when their mothers were busy on their phones and didn’t want to deal with a tantrum.
“He got a name?” Shepherd asked, hand in his pocket.
Avoiding eye contact, the boy shrugged.
“He’s a fine horse. Think he can run fast?”
The boy shrugged again, this time a smile ghosting his lips.
Yeah, this kid had an active imagination. Most children did, but usually that quality developed more in kids who were isolated and alone. He remembered the empty bedroom bereft of color. No toy trucks on the floor, no stuffed animals on the bed, no airplanes hanging from the ceiling.
Shepherd let a coin roll into the slot, and the boy yelped when the horse jerked to life. Within seconds, he was over his shock and riding it like a champ.
Shepherd eyed Patrick’s car. “Better run faster, the bad guys are catching up.” When the boy gripped the saddle horn, Shepherd lifted the reins. “You need these to tell him which direction to go, little man.”
The boy took the reins from Shepherd and curled his fingers around them. Shepherd was pretty sure the kid was reading his emotions, and he wanted so badly to know what the boy thought about him. Resisting his Sensor urge to find out, he put his hands back in his pockets.
The boy sat up straighter, confidence building as he looked over his shoulder and squinted. The expression reminded Shepherd of himself.
Patrick stalked in their direction, one of his guards following behind. The boy quickly dismounted and stared dolefully at his racing colt.
Shepherd squatted down and held out a coin. “Take this. Put it in your pocket and don’t show it to anyone. When you feel like running away, this is all you need.”
The boy palmed the coin and locked eyes with him.
“I’m like you,” Shepherd said. “Do you know what I mean by that? I feel things with my hands.”
He didn’t really have a point; he’d just decided it was important to let the boy know there were others like him. Chances were Patrick had kept Sensors away from the kid. Shepherd had put a lot of emotion into that coin so the boy would know he was telling the truth. Patrick was probably brainwashing this kid, and Shepherd couldn’t live with the idea of his own kid growing up to hate him. Maybe somehow that coin would plant a seed of doubt.
Shepherd quickly rose to his feet as Mr. Bane closed the distance between them.
“Boy, what did I tell you about running off?” Patrick chided, his soft brogue laced with annoyance.
The boy shuffled submissively behind his caretaker. Shepherd refused to think of Patrick as any kind of father. Slave master was more like it.
Patrick narrowed his green eyes, his complexion withering against the nasty chill. He put his hands in the pockets of his long coat and appeared surprised to see Shepherd at a grocery store on this side of town. This douchebag probably did most of his shopping in human places to avoid scrutiny from immortals who believed a Mage had no business with a child.
“Have a meaningful chat?” Patrick asked. “Rest assured, it’ll be the last.”
“You should keep your eye on him. Someone could have snatched him up and run off.”
Patrick sniffed, drawing attention to his red nose. “I hardly think so. I have eyes on him at all times.”
Shepherd locked eyes on the guard and gave him a frosty glare. “Doesn’t seem like it to me.”
“You insolent fool. Do you think a man in my position would take chances with an innocent child?” The words hung in the air like a veiled threat.
Patrick turned a ring on his finger and flicked a glance toward the parking lot. It made Shepherd look, and that was when he saw them. He counted four men standing in key locations—one behind a column, another by a lamppost in the parking lot. They had Asian features, and one of them was a big motherfucker. The longer he stared, the more Shepherd was certain he’d seen those men before.
“It’s quite astonishing how little compensation some men require for honest work. I suppose it helps when you have common interests. Until we meet again, Mr. Moon.”
As he pivoted away, Shepherd had an impulsive urge to reach around and cut his throat. But not in front of the boy. Not with Patrick’s new bodyguards, who were armed to the teeth by the looks of it. Instead, he clenched his jaw and let them walk away. The boy never looked back. He put a skip in his step to catch up with Patrick, little hands tucked in his coat pockets.