6. Lets Ride
Let's Ride
V ervain made Geralt’s limbs heavy and mind foggy, but at least it quieted R yker for the commercial flight to New York. The last thing he needed were humans filming him so he could become the next “American Werewolf in Paris”. His fingers felt clumsy with his claw tips sheathed, and his head felt near to bursting with the constant commotion of over a hundred humans surrounding him. Sunglasses shielded his eyes whenever they shifted to red. A mask covering the lower half of his face didn’t do a decent job of diluting the scents assaulting his sensitive nose. His jaw ached from the constant grinding of his teeth.
He hated flying commercial but a private jet landing near the mountains would draw the Lycan king’s attention. Gunter risked life and limb by placing a hand on his forearm, giving him a gentle pat. Geralt closed his eyes against the impulse to reach over and strangle the male. He insisted on coming with Geralt under the guise of putting Helen’s mind at ease. Her complaints about his plan fell on deaf ears as he packed his things for the two-day journey.
Helen would be upset if he killed Gunter, he reminded himself. Bile climbed into his throat as the plane jolted, causing his teeth to clack. His fingers tightened on the armrest, and he prayed to Selene for a safe landing. A plane crash could definitely end a Lycan’s life.
Gunter chucked softly. Geralt shot him a glare behind his shades. To his altered vision, the plane resembled a fun-house mirror, painted in reds and orange. Human chatter drove a pick axe into his skull. He fought his body’s desire to shift.
“Get me off this fucking plane,” he muttered, knowing the older Lycan could hear him perfectly.
“Yes, Alpha.” Laughter tinged his words, but the male pulled his phone out, fingers flying across the screen. Geralt shoved his head back into the seat, breathing as little as possible. His chest wouldn’t loosen until he could hold his daughter in his arms. The upholstery complained from the claws seeping out of his fingertips. Control slipped through his fingers like sand. He couldn’t stand another minute on the plane or he risk exposure.
Gunter gripped his arm firmly. Leaning over, he whispered in Geralt’s ear, “Gabriel chose this flight specifically. The pilot is from the Lakeside pack in California. He’s going to make an emergency landing.” Geralt released his hold on the armrest. Nodding eagerly, he brought a trembling hand to wrap around the watered down glass of whiskey in the cupholder. Feeling solid ground beneath his feet couldn’t come quick enough.