Chapter 50 – PLAGUE
Chapter
Fifty
PLAGUE
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.
Bomb is 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 move that would 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 fucking look."
Against my better judgment, I glance at the screen. It's filled with photos of Valek—our Valek, 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 was nice," 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.
Our scent match who's currently hidden away in some shithole motel in Cedarbrook with Wraith and Thane.
The knot of anxiety that's been sitting in my chest since we left tightens.
The only way I know she hasn't ended up in a pot of soup in someone's basement is because Thane texted us to let us know they're safe and staying in for the night.
"Has anyone reported seeing us?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral despite the concern eating at me. "At the hotel?"
Whiskey scrolls through different tags and forums. "Nah, they're all losing their shit over Valek. There's already fanart of him. Some of it's…" He makes a face that tells me everything I need to know about what he's looking at. "Yikes. Wanna see?"
"Absolutely not."
"This one has you guys—"
"I will literally throw your phone in the trash."
He grins, that insufferable expression that makes me want to either smack him or... something else I'm not thinking about in this crowded airport.
"Relax, Ice Prince. Our secret's safe. Everyone's too busy thirsting after Valek to care about anything else."
A harried-looking gate agent announces pre-boarding for our flight. The mass of humanity starts shifting toward the gate like cattle being herded.
"Finally," I mutter, gathering my carry-on.
Whiskey is practically bouncing. "You nervous about flying?"
"No."
"You sure? Because you look like you're about to have an aneurysm."
"I look like someone who's been forced to spend hours in close proximity to you."
"Aw, you say the sweetest things." He bumps my shoulder playfully as we join the boarding line. "Hey, what if I told them we're on our honeymoon? Think we'd get upgraded?"
"What if I told them you have drugs?"
"What do you mean drugs?" he asks, his eyes glinting as he immediately latches onto that. "Do you not even know the actual names of any of 'em?"
"I know plenty of fucking drugs," I mutter under my breath.
Whiskey throws his head back and laughs loud enough that the gate agent looks over. "I'll take my chances. Fancy ass straight-edge alpha."
"They'd believe me," I say pointedly. "You have the energy of someone who makes impulsive, destructive decisions."
"True." He shows his boarding pass to the gate agent, flashing that megawatt smile that probably gets him laid more than it should. "How's it going? Love the nails, by the way."
The agent, clearly charmed, smiles back. "Thank you! Have a great flight."
I hand over my boarding pass without comment, already trying to figure out how many hours I'll be trapped in a metal tube with Whiskey.
He's rife with energy as we walk down the jet bridge and board the plane, his broad shoulders barely fitting down the narrow aisle.
He stops at our row, then surprises me by stepping aside.
"You take the window," he says.
"Why?" I eye him suspiciously.
"So you can stare at the wing and pretend you're in control of the plane."
I narrow my eyes at him, but I don't argue. I slide into the window seat without comment, immediately checking the location of the emergency exit. Two rows back. Close enough.
Whiskey drops into the middle seat with a grunt, his bulk immediately invading my space. "Cozy."
"You could have booked business class."
"Yeah, well, I'd rather spend business class money on another trip with two special someones."
The reminder of what happened in that hotel room sends heat crawling up my neck and I turn to stare out the window instead of responding to him, watching the baggage handlers throw suitcases with concerning enthusiasm. Including mine.
"Oh my god, it's Whiskey!" a young woman squeals. "And Plague!"
"The one and only," Whiskey booms, his grin clear as day in his voice. "Well, the two and only. You want a selfie?"
I close my eyes. Of course he's engaging with fans. Of fucking course.
There's delighted giggling and the sound of phones being pulled out. I keep my face turned toward the window, hoping they'll leave me alone.
"Is Plague shy or pissed off?" one of them whispers loudly.
"Nah, he's just pretending he's too cool for this," Whiskey cuts in. "He's actually super sweet once you get to know him."
I turn to glare at him. "I am not sweet."
"See? Adorable," Whiskey says happily.
The fans laugh, and I resign myself to being part of whatever show Whiskey's putting on. He takes far too many selfies with the fans while I maintain what Whiskey calls my "resting murder face" in the background.
"Why are you guys going to Canada?" one asks.
"Business," I say curtly before Whiskey can elaborate.
"Hockey business?" she clarifies.
"Something like that," Whiskey says with a wink that makes them giggle again.
Finally, mercifully, they return to their seats as the flight attendants begin their safety demonstration. Whiskey actually pays attention, which surprises me until I realize he's silently joking around with the flight attendant, not listening to the instructions.
"You know, statistically, plane travel is safer than driving," I tell him as we taxi toward the runway.
"I know."
"Then why are you overcompensating for your fear by screwing around?"
He pauses, pursing his mouth like he's considering that. "I think I'm more worried about screwing up and getting kicked off the plane."
"Then don't screw up."
"Easier said than done."
The engines roar to life, and we're pressed back into our seats as the plane accelerates. Whiskey grabs the armrest—my armrest—his knuckles white.
"I thought you weren't afraid," I say dryly.
He squeezes his eyes shut tight and holds a finger to his lips. "Shhhh."
The plane lifts off, and my stomach drops in that familiar way that I've never quite gotten used to. Below us, the city shrinks to a grid of lights and shadows.
"Pretty," Whiskey observes, leaning across me to look out the window. His chest presses against my shoulder, and I catch his cinnamon scent. It reminds me immediately of the hotel room.
"You're crushing me."
"Sorry." But he doesn't move, even when he pulls his phone out. In fact, he crushes me more. "Gonna check if there's any updates on Valek's location."
"We're in the air. You won't have signal."
"I took hundreds of screenshots before we took off. I'm not an idiot."
It annoys me that I was wrong and he did think about that. But I'm not about to admit it. He's been driving me insane the entire time we've been here, and I know for a fact it's at least partially on purpose.