The bar was hushed, the way it always was when Nate closed it for the brotherhood.
Arianne arrived with Gilbert, the autumn chill caught in her coat. The neon sign in the window was off, its blue script dark against the glass. The chairs were up on the tables in the main room, their legs pointing at the ceiling like overturned insects. The hum of the fluorescent light buzzed overhead as they made their way past the empty booths toward the back room where they always met.
Julian was already there, sprawled in his usual seat with a glass of bourbon in his hand and a tan that made him look like he'd spent the past week somewhere far more exotic than Montclair. His skin had gone a deep golden-brown, the kind of tan that came from days of doing nothing but lying in the sun, and his hair had lightened a shade at the tips. Healthier than he'd been in years.
