Chapter 6 #2
But I won’t be any longer.
The air that hits when the cabin door opens is immediately sickening. Heavy and stale, carrying the ghost of heat that’s already fading.
It smells of kerosene and hot rubber, with a sharp gust of evening wind that cuts like it remembers winter.
My chromius presses against my ribs, jittering like a needle. I don’t let her out—it’s not like we have a form to utilise, after all.
Lucifer takes point, Hadrian ghosts my shoulder—close enough that a stumble would make it contact. We’re not touching, but if I stumbled, we would be.
Fuck.
There are two cars and six people waiting. Four of them are wearing the uniform of the Tribunal, meaning they’re Adrian’s staff, none of them people I recognise.
One woman with dark blue hair, and another with light brown. Two men stand just behind them, with short black hair, green eyes, and a stony jawline. Twins, maybe.
Or I’m seeing double.
The other two people are men in suits. I have no idea who they are, and I don’t recognise them either. Can’t wait for this shit-show to begin.
Especially since there’s two cars, and nine of us now, so Adrian’s goal was to split us up.
Who comes with me, and who is getting sent to… well wherever he’s sending them?
“Oh, this will be fun,” Lucifer murmurs, striding forward with a confidence I do not possess.
The runway lights throw long stripes of gold and white across the tarmac, catching on the cars and their polished hoods. The sky above is that bruised shade between lilac and navy, the last scraps of daylight bleeding out behind the clouds.
The staff members in the compound grey have the fake customer-service smiles that piss me off. The ones where I know every word out of my mouth will be reported to Adrian, while every one out of theirs is a lie.
“Hands in your pockets,” Lucifer demands, glaring at the people on the runway. His tone is all sunshine and knives. A fun combo that only he could pull off.
“Excuse me?” the woman with dark blue hair demands. She’s the one holding the sign that says ‘Maeve Quinn +2’.
If I wasn’t so anxious, I’d find it hilarious to taunt the two Graves men.
My hands are steady, but my stomach is not. The cool wind tugs at my dress, snapping the hem against my thighs, and the tarmac’s leftover warmth seeps through the soles of my shoes.
I hate it.
“We don’t touch around here,” Lucifer continues. “I don’t know why Adrian sent the six of you, but we didn’t request your help, Murillo.”
My eyes dart to the man who steps forward, the one wearing the navy suit with pinstripes. His eyes are dark, his scent covered in cologne, and he raises a brow.
“Devil,” he acknowledges, and I roll my eyes.
Of course, they know each other. However, knowing his surname helps because I know quite a bit about the Murillo family. They’re a strong line in the mythical community because they make very advantageous matches for their children in order to continue their line.
He’s around my age, I think, maybe a little older, and I’m pretty sure he’s currently unmated.
I haven’t met any of the Murillo’s in person, but other than being power-hungry, they don’t seem like bad people.
Jokes—all power-hungry people are bad.
“Don’t be a tease, Kiaan,” Hadrian warns. “This isn’t going to be a showdown in the airport with my mate here.”
I gag, giving the pegasus a dirty look. “Not your mate. And don’t stop the bloodshed on my account. I’d love nothing more than to watch you all fight to the death.”
Lucifer smirks back at me before shaking his head and looking over to the other man in a suit. “Ashford, not sure why you’re here.”
Oh, fuck.
This is a name I do know, and I’m already uneasy being around him.
Torin Ashford is the last of his family line, his mother having passed a few years back, and he inherited a large estate.
I’d like him a lot more if he became a recluse who lived there rather than being so far up Adrian’s ass he could tell you what the Tribunal leader had for breakfast that morning.
Torin cracks his knuckles, advancing towards us, too. I come to a stop next to Lucifer, and we’re maybe five feet or so from the cars.
“I’d say it’s good to be part of the welcome committee, boys, but I—” Torin says darkly.
“Boys?” Hadrian cuts him off with a grumble. “I’m barely a year younger than you.”
“Why are we standing here having a pissing contest?” I ask, eyeing up the staff members who are far too interested in what is happening here.
Torin Ashford is weaponised money in a suit. Tall—six-plus feet in the way doorframes notice—with shoulders carved like a verdict.
His suit swallows light, matte black and precise, his shirt a shade darker than midnight. The businessman wears no tie, and his cuffs are closed with slabs of obsidian. Typical rich man.
Short dark hair, trimmed sharp and tidy, with clean-cut facial hair the same shade. His eyes are the giveaway of his power, though.
Green-gold, a typical tell of a powerful feline even in human form.
No cologne, just clean steel and cedar and the dry electric note of a coming storm. A black watch that probably costs a family’s annual rent, and that large, signet ring that screams old blood.
When his knuckles crack, three staff flinch and don’t know why. Their animals do, though.
They’re already reading the pressure in the room—the intimidating presence that comes with a pantheral shifter.
“There’s not meant to be any,” the woman with the placard says. She eyes the two mythicals wearily, sensing the danger.
“Mr Graves sent us—” the other lady says, her voice sweet and soft.
“And like I said when I got here, you aren’t needed,” Torin says, cutting her off. “Kiaan and I are more than capable of picking up an entitled princess and her hounds.”
“Mr. Ashford,” the left twin says, pasting on a fresh smile. “We have orders—”
“You have counter-orders,” Kiaan replies. He’s polite in the tone, but his eyes are full of disdain—he’s friendly until they stop being useful. “Here you go.”
He hands over a document, and I frown as they all blanch.
Fuck me.
“Sir, my manifest—”
“Was filed sixty seconds after mine,” Torin says, not looking at him.
He looks at me as if we’re on opposite sides of a battlefield.
My spine goes rigid.
Lucifer’s smile goes knife-bright as he steps in front of me ever so slightly. It shouldn’t be noticeable, but, of course, the cat spots it.
“Oh, Torin, I’ve so missed your winning personality.”
Hadrian folds his arms, inching closer to me as well. “Who died and made you the boss?”
“Your pilot will if you keep standing in the open,” the panther says, gesturing to the plane. “Your choice, Miss Quinn, is to either bring the hounds with you in my car, or you could join the welcome committee over there and leave them behind.”
“Tempting,” I drawl.
Lucifer cackles darkly. “We could always just take their car and leave them to walk, princess. Say the word.”
I hold up a finger, looking at the four-person team. “Who signed your orders?”
He swallows. “Security Chief Malin. For Mr. Graves.”
“Cute,” Lucifer purrs. “Malin owes me forty thousand on a poker hand and a kidney.”
Hadrian’s baby-blue stare is all edges. “Yeah, fuck that. We’re not getting in that car.”
Torin’s attention returns to me like a weight. It isn’t leering. It isn’t kind. It’s…appraisal. As if I’m a document he intends to redact.
“Terms,” he says. “Yours.”
“My terms?” I repeat.
“You don’t like touch,” he says as if stating the weather. So understated, so… easy. “We’ve got plenty of space, windows up so as to not mess your pretty hair, and you’ve got two seats either side of you.
His gaze flicks to my midsection and rakes down my legs, leaving a burning trail as he goes. “I don’t manage your body. I manage the perimeter.”
Something in my chest loosens, but rather than calming me, it makes me angrier.
“And in return?” I ask.
“In return,” he says, “you don’t argue in the open while a snatch team calibrates wind.”
The wind gusts as if commanded by this dickhead, and I wince. My chromius whines and picks the cat without hesitation.
Bitch.
“Tell me you’ve got a plan of how to get rid of those fuckers,” Kiaan says under his breath as the five of us walk towards their car. His brown eyes flick to me. “Sorry for the language, miss.”
I cringe. I don’t like him, but he doesn’t set my entire soul on fire like Torin does.
“We do,” Torin says, rounding the car and opening the rear door. He steps aside so the space between us stays clear, and although he’s adhering to my rules, it’s clear he thinks they’re a waste of his precious time.
That I am a waste of his precious time.
“Your seat,” he says to me.
“My rules,” I correct, climbing in without hesitation. The moment he slams the car door, my heart thuds heavily, and I can hardly breathe as I strap myself in.
Not sure which is going to win—vomiting or blacking out.
The seats feel rough against my bare shoulders and thighs, and I’ve got to make an active effort to not scratch the itch away. I know it won’t do anything other than cut my skin.
Hadrian slides opposite me, his glare simmering. I’m not sure if it’s anger at his uncle or the minibus-style travel, but he’s not impressed.
Lucifer lingers long enough to toss a smile to the Tribunal team—one that promises nothing good—then swings in and shuts the door.
Torin and Kiaan get into the front, the former driving, and he turns to give us a warning look.
“Two more things,” he says. “One: turn your phones to airplane mode—yes, still—your ‘Do Not Disturb’ doesn’t do what you think it does. Two—”
His own phone buzzes. He glances at it, and his jaw tightens a millimetre.
“Two?” Luc prompts with ice in his voice.
“Two,” he says evenly, “Julian isn’t at the compound.”
Hadrian goes statue-still. Lucifer’s coin stops mid-flip.
“Define ‘isn’t,’” Hadrian snarls.
“He’s in holding.” Torin’s gaze darkens, his eyes burning into my own. “And your name, maelstrom, is on the paperwork as the reason why.”
Maelstrom?
Is that some play on my name as he insults me at the same time? It rolls off his tongue as he sounds out the syllables, and I don’t know whether to ask Lucifer to slit his throat or to wait for Draven to arrive and let him kill his friend.
The van hums to life as I sit tensely in my seat. The AC hisses, and I count its steady sounds as I try to keep my breathing even.
It’s fitting, really, in a twisted sort of way, I suppose.
My parents named me after spring rain, and here I am, a hurricane pretending to hold form.
Somewhere above the fence line, a tiny rotor buzz scratches the air. My chromius bares her teeth.
“Then take us there,” I tell him, resting back onto the seat. “And let’s see which fool thinks I sign things without reading them.”