Bradley was the next to wake, his bat in his hand and his eyelids fluttering open as he sprang to his feet, and then Alan was up as well, a hand on his shoulder.
He crouched down and walked slowly to Davey. He had the knife, handle wound with cord, once-keen edge gone back to rust and still reddened with ten-year-old blood, but its sharpness mattered less than its history.
“Welcome me home,” Davey rasped as Alan drew closer. “Welcome me home, motherfucker. Welcome me home, brother.”
“You’re welcome in this home,” Alan said, but Davey wasn’t welcome. Just last week, Alan had seen a nice-looking bedroom set that he suspected he could afford—the golems had left him a goodly supply of gold flake, though with the golems gone he supposed that the sacks were the end of the family’s no-longer-bottomless fortune. But with the bedroom set would come a kitchen table, and then a bookcase, and a cooker and a fridge, and when they were ready, he could send each brother on his way with the skills and socialization necessary to survive in the wide world, to find women and love and raise families of their own. Then he could go and find himself a skinny redheaded girl with a Scots accent, and in due time her belly would swell up and there would be a child.
It was all planned out, practically preordained, but now here they were, with the embodied shame sitting on their mother, his torn thumb gleaming with the wire he’d used to attach it back to his hand.
“That’s very generous, brother,” Danny said. “You’re a prince among men.”
“Let’s go,” Alan said. “Breakfast in town. I’m buying.”
They filed out and Alan spared Davey a look over his shoulder as they slipped away, head down on his knees, rocking in time with their mother.
Krishna grinned at him from the front porch as he staggered home from Kurt’s storefront. He was dressed in a hoodie and huge, outsized raver pants that dangled with straps and reflectors meant to add kinetic reflections on the dance floor.