shape those cyclones into anything monstrous in the foggy weather.
He drove through the open gates into the parking lot, and to his dismay, the lot was filled with Harleys, trucks and a few random cars. His heart sank. Music blasted out of the clubhouse. Two fires roared in the pits on the side overlooking the ocean, where men and women danced and partied in the fog. He could make out their eerie shapes gyrating even as their laughter was muffled by the heavy mist.
A fucking party. He was a day early, and the club was having a party. He’d forgotten it was on the schedule to meet with another club whose members had come, like them, from one of the four Sorbacov training schools in Russia. The club, calling themselves Rampage, wanted to join Torpedo Ink.
Player didn’t dare be around anyone in his present state. He was too worn, his brain fractured, the migraine too severe. He needed time to heal. To rest. A party with lots of people attending was the last place he needed to be. He forced his brain to keep counting, refusing to look at the grayish figures looking like silhouettes in the fog.
He pulled the keys out of the ignition and sat there for a moment, trying to clear his mind, eyes closed tight, breathing deep, counting in his head in the hopes that just by being in a familiar place, surrounded by his brothers, he would be okay. He opened his eyes slowly, reluctantly.
At once he saw the ocean, waves crashing against the bluffs—white foam rising in the air. The beat in his head became lobsters clacking claws together as they danced in the spinning cyclones rushing toward the bluffs, where the eerie shapes in the fog danced with that same beat. The lobsters called to the sea creatures to rise up, and they did, their forms growing in those whirling columns of mist as the beat accelerated, the drumming going faster and faster to match the crazy, gyrating twisters dancing over the wild waves.
The dancers around the firepit moved with the beat, just as out of control, turning toward the turbulent sea and the wall of fog and the strange unnerving cyclones heading for the bluffs. One dancer stumbled backward, nearly falling into the firepit. Several men grabbed for her, pulling her to safety as she screamed and laughed hysterically.
Player saw three men turn to look toward the truck. One sprinted toward him. He let out his breath and closed his eyes. He just had to get into the clubhouse and away from everyone. Maestro, one of his brothers, took the keys from him and wrapped his arm around him. “You should have called ahead. Recognized your Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland calling card.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice. “How bad is it?”
“My fucking head is about to explode.” Player dared to open his eyes, trying to squint, seeing Maestro through the shimmering fog with the strange backdrop of lobsters riding spinning waterspouts in the ocean over his shoulder.
Maestro was a big man with wide shoulders and vivid gray eyes that could look like liquid silver when he became intense. His hair was dark, streaked with silver, and like Player, he wore it longer. He appeared to be very gentle and soft-spoken, but that hid a very dominant personality. Right now, he urged Player out of the truck into the curling fog, where his free hand held the truck keys—but the keys were already morphing into a pocket watch. For a moment, a White Rabbit appeared behind Maestro, looking over his shoulder at the watch and shaking his head, those long ears flopping as he did so. His nose wrinkled, and worry gathered in his eyes. Then the rabbit began to morph into someone else altogether, and Player’s breath hitched. He hastily concentrated on the watch.
The watch was intricate. Made of gold. He would never forget that particular watch. He fixated on it. He remembered every detail of it. The way it worked so precisely. The elaborate transparent design. The two covers. The golden chain and swivel fob. As he looked at it lying in Maestro’s hand, it grew in size so he could see the images imprinted in the cover. He could hear the seventeen ruby jewels working to ensure perfect precision. He had to stop. He couldn’t look at that watch or think about it.
“My head hurts like a mother, Maestro, I’ve got to close my eyes. Get