The airport terminal buzzes with that particular brand of chaos that makes my skin crawl. Crying children, overlapping announcements, the assault of a thousand competing scents even though the surgical mask I keep adjusting to make sure the edges are flush with my skin.
Airplanes—and airports, by association—might as well be petri dishes.
I press myself against the wall near our gate, trying in vain to create a buffer zone between myself and the teeming masses of humanity while Whiskey scrolls through his phone with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
Bombis the wrong word, actually. I'm paranoid he's going to make a bomb joke and get us put on the "do not fly" list.
What a delightful career movethatwould be.
"Motherfucker," he mutters, shoving the screen in my face. "Look at this shit."
I lean away from the brightness. The last thing I need is to trigger my brewing stress migraine. "I'd rather not contract whatever brain-rotting disease you've clearly caught from social media."
"Just fuckinglook."
Against my better judgment, I glance at the screen. It's filled with photos of Valek—ourValek, the bastard we're supposed to be tailing—surrounded by fans at this very airport. He's smiling his usual wolfish grin, silver eyes tired but gleaming as fans pose with him.
"He left two hours ago," Whiskey says, scrolling through more posts. "These thirsty traitors are calling him the hottest guy on the team. Can you believe that shit?"
I can, actually. Valek has that dangerous beauty that makes people stupid. But admitting that would only fuel Whiskey's bizarre competitive streak, so I keep my mouth shut.
"They're saying he wasnice," Whiskey continues, his voice dripping with disgust. "Charming. One chick said he smelled like 'sin in a winter storm.' Is bro a candle? What the fuck does that even mean?"
"It means he's good with the public," I say, checking the departure board again. Our flight doesn't leave for another forty minutes.
Whiskey's scrolling becomes more aggressive. "Oh, for fuck's sake. They're doing that dog breed thing again."
"The what now?"
"You know, where they compare us to dogs." He shows me another post. "Look at this bullshit. They're calling me a golden retriever."
I can't suppress the snort of amusement. "Accurate."
"It's not fucking accurate! I'm not some goofy happy dog who just wants belly rubs and treats."
"Hmm."
He's too lost in scrolling to keep arguing. "They're saying you have black cat energy, so you wouldn't be a dog at all, but if you were, you'd be a Doberman. Thane's a German Shepherd, which actually makes sense. And Wraith's a Rottweiler." He scrolls more. "No, wait, they're saying he's a Cane Corso, because they're bigger and more intimidating, and misunderstood. What the fuck is a Cane Corso?"
"It's a guard breed," I supply automatically.
"Of course you know that." He glares at the phone. "Why does Valek get to be an arctic wolf? I wanna be a fuckin' wolf, bro."
"Because he's mysterious and dangerous?"
"I'm mysterious and dangerous."
I give him a look that conveys exactly how non-mysterious and non-dangerous I find him.
"I could be a wolf," he insists. "I've got wolf energy."
"You have the energy of an overcaffeinated bull."
"Fuck you." But he's already distracted by more posts. "At least they're all obsessed with Valek instead of paying attention to…"He stops abruptly, glancing around before lowering his voice. "You know."
I do know.
Ivy.
