Demon Night

poker with him too long. I can’t bluff him for shit—pardon my language.”
    She shot him an incredulous glance, but his embarrassment seemed genuine—and his flush was so cute —that she decided not to point out that she worked in a bar and often said worse. “Where is he now?”
    “Drifting, so you don’t have to worry that he can hear our diabolical plan. It’s like meditation,” he added when she cast a puzzled look at him. “Deep breathing and focusing on an inner point, until all of the buildup just drifts away.”
    She pulled her arm over her head until she felt the burn in her triceps. “Is that why they call him Drifter?” She’d assumed he’d gotten his name by never staying in one place very long.
    “Well, the spaghetti western bit doesn’t help.”
    That response had come quick, and Charlie smiled to herself. Jake was apparently a talker, one of those gregarious types who couldn’t keep something to themselves if their lives depended on it, and she was suddenly very glad she’d come down. Ethan’s description of the events surrounding his brother’s death had left a lot of holes and raised more questions—but she wouldn’t ask him to revisit those memories just so that she could catch up.
    Jake might be able to provide some answers. And if she started him out by showing that she was already in-the-know, he’d probably be less likely to balk at sharing personal information.
    “He said the western bit was something he’d adopted.”
    “Did he?”
    Responding with a question was never good—so maybe Jake was more careful with information than she’d thought. Or maybe just aware of when someone was manipulating him; he’d quickly recognized her tall-tale mode. A glance beneath her lashes confirmed the cuteness had dissolved into pointed, sharp attention.
    “Yes,” she said.
    He regarded her with that expression for a long moment. “Drifter tells me that your privacy is important to you.”
    Dammit. That sounded like a polite way to tell her to mind her own business. She sighed and nodded. “It is.”
    Jake rubbed his palm over his head, in much the way she’d imagined herself doing only a few minutes before. His grin appeared again. “The thing is, I’m the kind of guy who’s a big believer in equality, and I got him a lot of information on you. And I don’t suppose there’s anything I could tell you that you couldn’t just look up in a history book, anyway…or by digging around a few obscure archives and rifling through copies of personal letters. Some of it, like his name on a list of graduates from Harvard Law School, 1878, you can find just by searching for it online. And his brother’s name is there, two years later. You ready to start?”
    Not if it was going to interrupt his recitation of Ethan’s history. “Can you talk while…” She looked him over as he stepped in close, his hands at his sides, and she frowned. “Are you just going to stand there while I punch and kick you?”
    “Basically. Anything else would be picking on you—but don’t worry, I’ll give you a workout. And we’ll make a wager: when you hit anywhere on my body or head, you win.”
    Charlie bounced up on her toes, flexing her fingers, her eyes widening. “Win what?”
    Her enthusiasm seemed to amuse him; he closed his eyes like he was fighting a laugh and turned his head to the side. Sucker. Pulled in by the same tactic he’d attempted to use on her. “A few details that you can’t find in history books…” He huffed out a breath when her fist connected with his ribs. “Hot damn!”
    “Sorry,” she said as he rubbed his side. “Okay, not really. He told me he was born on Beacon Hill.” Many of the wealthy opera patrons in the Boston area had Beacon Hill addresses; she’d been there a couple of times, and the houses were old, but not all of the money was. Ethan might have been from either. “A good family?”
    This time, Jake was ready, and he blocked her without effort, simply sliding his flattened palm in front of her fist, using his forearm to brush aside her kicks. “His mom, yes—his dad, no. McCabe, Sr., worked himself up through a law firm. Made a nice name for himself, but when the war started, he enlisted. The Civil War,” he clarified when she paused for a second.
    “That was…” She blew a strand of hair out of her face, tried desperately to remember. “1860? So Drifter was six?”
    “Yes. Does this ever make you feel like saying, ‘Wax on, wax