Desperation. I’m not fucking desperate. Or maybe I am, but not to fuck her. To free Quinn.
As my fingers loosen, they brush against my damp joggers, reminding me of the message Lara slipped into my pocket.
I fish out a ribbon of paper and unfold it. My pulse quiets when Trenton’s scrawl punches my pupils.
12 pm tomorrow at Freddie’s Deli. Family reunion. Ask for a BLT without bacon.
Family, my ass. I make confetti of the paper, knowing full well why I’m being convened. Because I’m not going fast enough.
I squint to locate Lara so I can send a message back with her—one that’ll be short and to the point:No.
Though her “friends” are still at the bar, Lara’s not there. Not anywhere, for that matter.
Dread coils under my skin. What if she followed Electra? What if she jumped her?
I suddenly picture Lara shooting Electra with one of those numbing bullets full of magic dust—the newest weapon against the Atlanteans developed by their own people.
I shove out of the club and scan the street. When I find no trace of blood or service van burning rubber, my heart rate dips.
I haul open my car door and sink behind the wheel. My fingers are so damp and shake so hard that it takes me three attempts to feed the key in the ignition. The motor sputters, coughs.
“Don’t you fucking die on me tonight,” I growl, turning the key so hard that if I were from Atlantis, the metal would snap.
The motor hums and then it roars.
I rest my head back, push my glasses to the top of my head, and squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Thank fuck.”
When fragments of the night develop against my lids, I slam my glasses back in place and pull out of my parking spot, setting off toward the covered lot I call home.
At a red light, I check to see whether Electra has written me anything. She hasn’t. I’m about to toss the phone aside when I notice that her live location is still delivering. My eyebrows bend as I trail the small dot that stops on a street that isn’t hers.
A street that’s Malachi’s.
My anger is so violent that I speed through a red light. I force myself to pull over before a cop can do it for me.
Why did Electra run back to her little god? Could my stupid fake-dating scheme actually have worked? But most of all, why the fuck do I feel like storming Malachi’s house to get her out of there?
I toss my ball cap off and clutch my hair at the roots, reconsidering the damn mission. But one look at my shoes—at Quinn’s initials—reminds me to stay the course.
I drive back to my camper, my skin feeling tight and hot.
Irritation. That’s all it is. Plain and simple annoyance.
It’s the only feeling Electra Serran inspires in me.
Chapter 14
Electra
“I’m here,” I call out as I barge into Malachi’s home, my insides tied into a thousand knots from whatever the hell happened between Cillian and me in the speakeasy. “Don’t know why I’m here, though.”
I look between Mom, who’s setting down a porcelain cup of tea in its saucer, and Malachi, who’s leaning against the stovetop, arms crossed in front of his white button-down.
“Come sit.” She pats the wooden counter stool beside her.
The knots inside my stomach form new knots. “Why?”
“Because we need to talk,” she says.
