“Is that why you went back to the Humans?”
“It hurt less,” I say instead of yes. “Feeling alone among people who were never supposed to be my own.”
He sighs and draws up his knees, hands clasped between them. A thought vibrates through me: right here, right now, I don’t feel particularly alone.
“You’re right, Lowe. I don’t have the hardware to understand what a mate is, and I can’t imagine meeting someone and feeling the sense of kinship you’re talking about. But . . .” I close my eyes and think back fifteen years. A caregiver knocked on my door and introduced me to a dark-haired girl with dimples and black eyes. The breath I draw is stymied. “I was able to install the software. Because Serena gave it to me. And maybe I disappointed her at times, maybe she was angry at me, but that means nothing in the big picture. I understand that you’re willing to face Emery on your own, or to sacrifice everything for your pack. I understand because I feel the same about Serena. And for reasons I cannot fully articulate, because feelings are fucking hard for me, I’d like to come with you. To help you find whoever is trying to hurt Ana. And I think that Serena would be proud of me, because I’ve finally managed to care about something. Even just a little bit.”
He studies me in the moonlit air for far too long. “That was a badass speech, Misery.”
“Badass is my middle name.”
“Your middle name is Lyn.”
Shit. “Stop reading my file.”
“Never.” He inhales. Tips back his head. Stares at the same stars I’ve been mapping all night. “If we do it—if I take you with me, it will have to be my way. To make sure that you’re safe.”
My heart flutters with hope. “What’s your way? Architecturally? With a Corinthian pilaster?”
I’m not funny. But neither is he.
“If you come with me, Misery, you’ll have to be marked.”
CHAPTER 14
She tastes the way she smells.
I expected a twenty-hour road trip in the hybrid parked in Lowe’s garage, or maybe a shorter plane ride in economy class with cotton discreetly stuffed in my nose to avoid being bombarded with the smell of Human blood.
I did not expect a Cessna.
“Honey,” I ask, lowering my sunglasses to the tip of my nose, “are we rich?”
His glance is only mildly blistering. “We’re just banned from most Human-owned airlines, darling.”
“Oh, right. That’s why I’ve never flown before. It’s all coming back to me.”
It’s hard to overstate how little Mick, Cal, and Ken Doll Ludwig like Lowe’s decision to take his Vampyre bride to Emery’s home. In the waning light of dusk, they practically throb with tense concern and unspoken objections.
Or spoken, maybe. I slept most of the day, and it’s entirely possible that while I was stuffed in the closet for my midday coma, they went through several rounds of screaming matches. I’m glad to have missed them, and just as glad that my time awake has been spent organizing tech stuff with Alex.
“If someone tries to kill Lowe,” he told me, showing me a USB Rubber Ducky, “it’s your duty to give your life for your Alpha.”
“I’m not full-body diving between him and a silver bullet.” I held the GSM interceptor against the light to study it. Nifty. “Or whatever it takes for you guys to be killed.”
“Just a regular bullet. And if you marry into a pack, the pack’s Alpha becomes your Alpha. You marry an Alpha, he most definitely becomes your Alpha.”
“Uh-huh, sure. Can I see that microcontroller over there?”
I’m not sad Alex didn’t come see us off at the little executive airport, because the others exude enough existential angst. Tight-lipped, bouncer-posed, frowny. Mick repeatedly shakes his head while holding Sparkles like a burping child—because, yes: Sparkles is, according to someone who’s been scolded multiple times in the past two hours for stuffing Play-Doh into outlets, “a valued family member” who “really loves to watch planes go whooosh.” Juno is the least opposed to the op, which is nice of her. The real happy camper, however, is Ana, and only because of the promises she extracted from Lowe: presents, candy, and, in a required logistical effort that far overestimates his abilities, stealing an L from the Hollywood Sign.
“L for Liliana,” she whispers at me conspiratorially, because her faith in my alphabet skills is shaky at best. Then she skips away to subject Sparkles to unspeakable cuddly things that have him purring his heart out, but would earn me permanent disfigurement.
“Let’s go,” Lowe tells me after bending down to kiss her forehead. I follow him up the steps, waving back at Ana before disappearing inside. It looks less like a one percenter’s luxury jet, and more like a cross between a nice living room and first class on an Amtrak train.
“Is the pilot Were?” I ask, following Lowe to the front of the plane. It’s not a particularly cramped space, but we’re both tall, and it’s a tight fit.
“Yup.” He opens the door to the cockpit.
“Who—”
I shut up when he lowers himself into the pilot seat. He presses buttons with quick, practiced movements, puts on a large pair of headphones, and talks to air traffic control in hushed tones.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I roll my eyes. I’m tempted to ask when, between leading a pack and becoming an architect, he got a small aircraft license. But I suspect he wants me to, and I’m too petty to oblige. “Show-off,” I mutter, bumping my right hip into half a dozen protuberances on my way to the copilot chair.
His smile is lopsided. “Strap in.”
Like everything else, Lowe makes flying look effortless. Being in a giant metallic bird in the sky should be terrifying, but I press my nose against the cold window and gaze at the night sky, the sprawling lights interrupted by long stretches of desert. I only reemerge when we get permission to land.
“Misery,” he says, softly.
“Mmm?” From up high, the ocean is unmoving.
“When we land,” he starts, then takes a long pause.
So long, I pry myself from the cold glass. “Ouch.” I’m stiff from not moving for hours, so I stretch my neck in the narrow cabin, trying to avoid accidentally pressing an ejector seat button. “Everything hurts.” When I straighten after arching my spine, the way he’s staring at me is too intense to not be judgmental. “What?” I ask, defensive.
“Nothing.” He turns back to the control board. Too fast.
“You said, ‘when we land’?”
“Yeah.”
“You realize that’s not a sentence, right? Just a temporal subordinate clause.”
His eyebrow lifts. “You’re a linguist now?”
“Just a helpful critic. What happens when we land?”
He roams the inside of his cheek with his tongue.
“Are you going to tell me?”
He nods. “I need to send Emery and her people the message that you’re part of my pack and no violence against you will be tolerated. Not just the verbal message.”
“You said you’d do that by marking me, right?” Whatever that is. The blinking lights in the landing strip are approaching, and the turbulence is making me nauseous. I shift my focus to Lowe. “I don’t need to speed-read Architecture for Dummies and pretend I can tell Gothic and art deco apart?”
