Why haven’t any of them sent word?
“We should—” I bolt to my feet when the doors to the audience hall burst open.
At the same time, Jihun draws his long sword and places himself directly in front of me. I finally understand why Sunny yells at me every time I shield her with my body. It’s aggravating as hell. I deliberately walk around him to stand at his side.
“Your Majesty.” Jaeseok stumbles toward the dais with his hand wrapped around his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers.
“Jaeseok, what happened?” I take a step toward thedokkaebi, my heart pounding against my ribs and echoing in my ears. “Speak, Lieutenant Cha.”
I briefly indulge in the fantasy that he comes bearing good news—news that Sunny is safe. But I don’t need to see the pallor of Jaeseok’s face and the dread in his eyes, not to mention his injured shoulder, to know that he brings no such news.
“It is worse than we anticipated,” he says in a hoarse rasp. “General Bak has invaded with the entire might of the Kingdom of Sky.”
My grandfather does not want a war. He wants a massacre.
Chapter Three
Sunny
One of the glorious things about Las Vegas is that there is every imaginable color and flavor of margarita available, twenty-four seven. It is gloriously disgusting. But considering the atrocities I’ve committed, I deserve to suffer this level of hell.
I’m on a mission to drink myself into oblivion. I’ve been stumbling from one bustling casino to the next, replenishing my yard-long plastic cup at every overcrowded stop. Thank goodness for humans and their unwavering skepticism. Nothing muddles magic traces better.
“Humph.” If I have enough sense left to remember that I’m hiding from the Shingae, the world of gods, then I must not be drunk enough.That won’t do.Or maybe I’m just falling back on old habits.
“Sunny,” someone calls me from behind.
I lurch to a stop and sway in spot for a second. Once I regain enough balance not to keel over, I turn around to face the person who said my name. I really should be shivering in my breeches. Because if someone from the Shingae found me, then I’m a sitting duck. Even if I’m not too drunk to hide, I’m way too drunk to fight.
I am a drunk duck in breeches.
I snort. With admirable restraint, I refrain from quacking and focus my bleary gaze on the muscular, flannel-clad chest in front of me. Then I look up—and up—until I meet warm hazel eyes smiling down at me. I blink to make sure I’m not seeing things, but the mop of red hair is hard to miss even at my advanced level of inebriation.
“Ford?” I cringe at the loudness of my own voice. I’m not happy to see my old friend. The squishy feeling inside me is just margarita slushing around. “What are you doing here?”
His smile morphs into a frown. “I work here, Sunny.”
“Since when?” We used to work in the same shitty casino. Did he move jobs? I squint in confusion—and also because he’s swaying back and forth. The second part might be on my end, though.
“Longer than I’ve known you.” He throws his hands up. “What areyoudoing here? Are you okay? I haven’t seen you in months.”
“You work here?” I’ll catch up to the rest of the stuff he said later.
“Yes, like you used—Never mind.” He plows his fingers through his hair, then narrows his eyes at my neon-green cup. “What the hell are you drinking?”
“Oh, this?” I beam at him. Ford is a bartender—a cocktail connoisseur, if you will. He will understand the depth of my suffering. “It’s a green-apple margarita.”
He barely manages not to gag. “You don’t touch that shit.”
“I’m not the same person you used to know.” I deserve to drown in revolting margaritas. “I drink it in every flavor. If Las Vegas concocts it, then I drink it. It is my only source of sustenance.”
“Jesus.” He rubs his hand over his jaw and whips off the neatly folded white towel from his shoulder. Then he cranes his neck toward a petite blond with a gorgeous tattoo sleeve at the other side of the bar. “I’m taking my break now, Charlotte.”
I vaguely register that I’m standing at the bar of my former place of employment, a small casino off the Strip.What am I doing here?I shrug, jostling the margarita in my hand, which reminds me of my main objective.To get shit faced.
I open my mouth wide to catch the straw to my treacly drink and bob my head every which way because it’s a slippery little sucker. I snicker at the unintentional pun, then resume my chase for the elusive straw.
I come perilously close to sticking the thick straw up my nose before I finally manage to wrap my lips around it. I take a long, syrupy sip, and the ache in my chest eases for a brief second at my self-inflicted punishment.
