August shrugged. “It’s hard to sleep when you feel like part of you is being sucked away.”

Deven didn’t like the anxious look in August’s eyes so he changed the subject. “Did the local agents find other sacrifices?”

August nodded. “Ortega and Zardo located twenty-nine people so far who’re attached to Night Axe.”

“Why don’t they trace the network to Night Axe and drop a bomb on his lair?”

August snorted. “Nice idea. Unfortunately there’s this thing about innocent casualties that the agency tends to frown upon.”

“Right, simply killing him would be too easy, wouldn’t it?” Deven heard the fatigue in his own voice. Obviously so did August. He gripped Deven’s arm and led him to a plush cream-colored sofa and urged him to sit down. Deven collapsed back, sighing as his body sank into the cushions. August sat close beside him.

The room was expansive, the ceiling two floors up with wood fans lazily stirring the air. The room and all its furnishings were exclusively white, the only color coming from the bright red area rug under a white, glass-topped coffee table.

Deven leaned his head back, staring up at the fans. Only the occasional chirp of the security system broke the silence of the house.

“Is anyone else staying here?” he asked.

“Other than night staff, no. You’re free to molest me without witnesses.” August smirked at his innuendo, but the obvious exhaustion in the agent’s eyes belayed any hope that he might have been serious.

“What did you find out from the Aztaw?” August asked.

“He’ll discover what he can about Night Axe’s vulnerabilities and meet me at dawn. He’s confident we can poison him, making him weak enough to subdue.”

“Good.” August nodded. “I’m coming with you.”

Deven frowned. “You don’t look up to it.”

“I’ll be fine. I slept a little and dinner will revive me. Speaking of which, I went ahead and ordered something for you.”

“What a surprise.” Deven sank lower into the couch and closed his eyes. August said nothing for a bit and Deven had nearly drifted off to sleep when he felt August’s fingers touch his shoulder.

“What did he say to you?”

“Who?”

“Your contact.”

“I told you.” Deven kept his eyes clamped shut, afraid his tumultuous thoughts would show, so close to the surface.

“He said something that’s upset you. You’re tense and unhappy.”

Deven cracked open an eyelid. “I’m hunting the Aztaw bogeyman armed with two knives and aided by an injured asshole of an Irregulars agent. Why should I be happy?”

August snorted. “I’m not that much of an asshole.”

“Yes you are.”

“You like me anyway.” August closed his own eyes and slid down to match Deven’s height on the couch. His long legs sprawled out in front of him, limp.

Deven decided not to answer that. He didn’t need to complicate matters with his feelings about August.

“You want to return to Aztaw.” August said it; it wasn’t a question.

Deven opened his eyes. “What does it matter to you? If I finish the job I’ve been paid for, I can do whatever I like.”

“Of course.” August clenched his jaw. “But you’re making a mistake.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Deven said.

August scowled. “What? Being lonely? Feeling out of place? Not being able to relate to anyone around you? Welcome to the fucking Irregulars club, Deven. The difference is that here you have people who will help you. Friends in the division who understand that isolation. Occasionally even lovers.” Something dark crossed August’s eyes, but he blinked and cleared his expression before Deven could read more into it.

“You left Aztaw because everyone was trying to kill you,” August continued. “You think that’s changed?”

“I left Aztaw to keep a promise to my lord. If I preserve his house power here I can return.”

“And serve what cause? Show your affection to whom?”

Deven opened his mouth to speak, but someone coughed in the doorway and both he and August turned to look over the back of the sofa.

One of the front security guards stood there, holding two plastic bags of takeout. “You order this, Agent?”

“Yeah, thanks.” August winced as he stood but walked straight-backed, offering no hint of weakness. He took the bags from the guard and set up their meal on the coffee table.

Deven watched this little domestic routine, his throat feeling thick.

He pulled the pen from his hair and stared at its intricate carvings. He had not necessarily been happy back when he’d served Lord Jaguar, but he’d known who he was at least.

“Here.” August’s voice was gruff and he shoved a paper plate onto Deven’s lap with no finesse. Deven returned the pen behind his ear and steadied the plate on his knees. The food looked unfamiliar—and to his surprise, it was cold.

“Eat up,” August ordered. He dug into his own meal, which steamed with heat and was wrapped in corn husks.

Deven had to hold the soft, folded taco in two hands. It was stuffed with diced vegetables and what looked like seafood and a creamy sauce. He had no expectations, so when he bit into the sour, fatty, cool creaminess of the seafood ceviche he was startled by the complex flavors and textures. His mouth watered and he instantly craved more, stifling a groan of delight as he bit into avocado that mingled with the lime and onion and snapper so perfectly Deven thought he was in heaven.

He polished off the meal with hardly a breath between bites, and when he was done, he turned to see August had barely started eating, his gaze focused on Deven, eyes glinting with mirth.

“What?” Deven asked, clearing his throat. Some juices from the taco stained his fingers and he licked them clean.

August smiled but didn’t say anything. A contentment sank through Deven’s tired bones as he leaned back against the couch and relaxed into his calorie high. He watched August’s long, beautiful fingers deftly manipulate the husk wrapping his tamale. He made mundane gestures look elegant.

His fondness for August must have shown, because August stopped his gestures and gave him an open, curious look. The two stared at each other for a long moment, and something warm and tremulous tugged at Deven’s heart, made him flush with contentment.

Just this, he thought. Maybe this could be enough.

August reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Deven’s ear. The touch vibrated through Deven’s body, sharp and shocking as a wound and almost equally as painful in its brevity.

August turned back to his dinner and Deven glanced at his empty plate, wishing there was more. He might even consider abandoning his new plan to ally with Lord Knife for the prospect of a second ceviche taco in his future.

This shows why people become obsessed with food, he thought, and then he corrected himself.

More likely, this showed that he wasn’t entirely convinced he wanted to return, if it took only a taco to convince him otherwise.

***

Deven slept solidly for several hours, luxuriating in the secure setting and the privacy of his own room for the first time since he’d arrived in Mexico. He charged his phone and its alarm awoke him an hour before sunrise.

He expected he’d have to rouse Agent August so he was surprised to find him awake, dressed impeccably as ever in a pressed suit. He sat at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee, flipping through screens on his phone, the odd greenish tone of the screen contributing a ghastly shade to his already pale face.

“Trouble sleeping?” Deven asked, yawning. He shuffled into the dark kitchen. Only a dim light over the oven was turned on.

“It’s uncomfortable,” August admitted, and Deven didn’t need to ask what “it” was.

“You sure you feel strong enough to meet with Fight Arm?”

“Is that his name?” August smirked, but there was no warmth to it. “I’m fine. 72 is waiting outside.”