I don’t nod because I’m not certain what acknowledging that claim, that tie, will do. The universe might decide that having an entire motorcycle club at my beck and call would make for some entertaining chaos.
Instead, I smile at Grinder. “I’d like to meet Pinky.”
“I can make that happen.” Then, in full view of the Outcast, he taps his chest with three fingers of his left hand.
I acknowledge that invocation with a twist of my lips and a shake of my head.
Grinder’s grin widens.
I cross around to the front passenger-side door of the Benz. DeVille already has the car idling, poised to take off.
“Take your pet with you,” the Outcast sneers behind me, because he apparently can’t stand to not get the last word in. Might be a failing of old age. And the massive superiority complex, of course.
The cu-sith is clearly thinking about killing them all.
“Maybe not right now,” I say to the beast. “And definitely not Grinder.”
The cu-sith chuffs, silently laughing as if he thinks I’m joking.
“That’s not terrifying at all,” DeVille mutters from inside the car.
The cu-sith finally turns his back on the three Outcast shifters, deliberately knocking his shoulder into the Benz as he passes and making the car rock on its tires.
DeVille squeaks.
The cu-sith meets my gaze, dropping his mouth open in a toothy and terrifying smile. He’s playing with us.
I climb into the car. DeVille instantly taps the accelerator, spinning the wheel sharply to head back up the drive. The cu-sith is just ahead of us.
“Anyone else have a craving for seafood?” Bellamy says, watching the Outcast shifters through the open window. She has her elbow planted on the frame, essence threading through the fingers of her raised hand. Ready to throw down in her annoyingly confident way.
“Oh!” Presh says, leaning forward over the front seat. “I know the best place!”
DeVille and Bellamy chorus as one: “Put your seat belt on.”
We turn onto the main road, heading back up the coast. The cu-sith stalks us from within the forest. I settle back against the seat, close my eyes, and try to sink into the rightness of the moment.
Despite all the tension with the Outcast, despite Bellamy pretty much being a mass murderer — because even if it was at her father’s behest, I doubt Presh will ever be able to forgive her for killing Kris — and despite allowing the soul bond between me and Reck to dissolve … this path feels, for the first time, like where I’m meant to be. In the now.
Two motorcycles slide into our wake about five minutes after we leave the Outcast compound. Neither biker wears a helmet, but I would have been able to identify the riders without even glancing over my shoulder to note Doc Z’s strawberry-blond hair and Cayley’s envy-worthy patchwork jacket. The energy of the pegasus and kitsune shifters is unmistakable, though I’m not certain if my sensitivity to it from so far away is new, or if I simply know them both on an essence level now.
I would have thought that the Outcast would have more important tasks for the highly skilled pack medic than trailing me around. Though maybe Bellamy is the focus for this particular detail. Not an enjoyable task for Doc Z, given that Kris was her sister. I doubt that three months is enough time for any of her grief to have lessened. And Cay’s presence seems to confirm that she’s a member of the Outcast MC. I hadn’t been certain before. Though she’s still not wearing a cut.
DeVille carefully follows the speed limit, turning us off the highway near the outskirts of Newport, then winding down through a mostly residential area to the water’s edge. Presh’s restaurant of choice stands partially over the water, raised on posts driven deep into the sand, and covered with barnacles and mussels from when the tide is high.
The sign over the door reads: ‘A Home Away.’ Like everything in Outcast territory up and down the coast, the freshly painted building — white with light-blue trim — has clearly been revitalized.
As we pull into a small parking area between the restaurant and a property with a low stone fence, I note another sign for a resort and spa. Through the expansive lot, small cabins are situated on either side of a long, narrow drive. The greenery has a fairly new, helped-along-by-a-mage-or-two feel to it. The nearest cabins are basic looking, newly constructed to match the general seaside aesthetic.
“Rath got this place opened in the late spring,” DeVille says, shutting off the Benz. “It’s been booked out for almost two years already.”
“The seafood chowder is great,” Presh exclaims from the back seat.
Doc Z and Cay pull their bikes up to our right, taking up the space between us and the low stone wall. Whitecapped waves crash over the light-gray beach stretching before us, with far fewer rocky outcroppings than the shore along the estate. The wind catches my hair and the skirt of my sundress as I step out of the car, ignoring the new arrivals for a moment.
Doc Z and Cay both shuck off their leather jackets to reveal Outcast tank tops, then finger-comb out their hair. Ironically, both shifters look much more like the goddess I’m purported to be — tall, curvy, yet powerfully built.
Catching them pretending to look everywhere but at me, I brush away the comparisons between us. It’s unlike me to worry about such things … but it’s just …
