Bart deliberately stepped a foot to the left, out of swinging distance. “And it made them bitter and angry.” He went on, eyeing Donovan cautiously. “They didn’t get to do what they wanted to do with their lives; they were forced to follow traditions. They probably had their own hopes and dreams outside of what their parents wanted them to do, but they didn’t feel like they could defy them.”
“You cannot break tradition,” Donovan rumbled. “That is why it is called tradition.”
“Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people,” Bart said, edging back a bit more. “Most of the time, it doesn’t serve us in any way. A lot of the time, it actively harms people. Look at me.” He flung his hands around, gesturing to himself. “If my parents had their way, I’d be in the closet and absolutely miserable for my entire life.”
I caught a glimpse of Donovan’s face; he looked defiant but thoughtful.
“You’re right,” I said to Bart. “I get why Vincent’s parents would be angry at Vincent for following his dreams when they couldn't follow theirs. But they’re angry at me. Not him. They took him back in, and they’re bankrolling him now.”
“He’s their only son. You’re an easy scapegoat for their outrage, I guess.”
A squeal of delight behind me stole my attention. Eryk and Nate were a little way back in the line, holding baby Cecil by the hands. Cecil, with a devilish grin, was making them swing him by the hands.
I was just glad he wasn’t smoking.
I turned back to Bart. “Gordon and Delilah are just so extreme. I didn’t even come close to killing Vincent; he just had a minor concussion and a couple of stitches. But they want to absolutely destroy me.”
Bart shrugged. “It could just be lead poisoning.” We shuffled forward, and, gesturing to Cress to pay attention, Bart strolled through the x-ray machine, gathered his things on the other side, and stood waiting for her.
Cress stalked through, the machine beeped, and the light above flashed red. A heavyset white woman in a TSA uniform waved her back and handed her a plastic container. “Take off any metal objects, piercings, belts, and place them in here.”
Cress pulled out a foot-long jeweled dagger from her pocket and put it in the container grudgingly.
“Hey,” the agent said, eyes narrowing. “What is that?”
Cress snapped her fingers, and green sparks flew. “It’s a belt.”
The agent relaxed back, eyes slightly glazed. “Oh. Okay. Head on back through.” She pointed to the x-ray gate.
Cress strode through again; it beeped. The light turned red.
The agent shook the plastic container. “Anything else metal on you?”
“Perhaps.” Cress frowned, patted herself down, and pulled out a strip of fabric with eight silver throwing knives sheathed inside, sharp tips gleaming wickedly under the fluorescent lights. She placed it in the container. “There.”
The agent’s eyes bulged. “What is—”
More green sparks flew. “Feminine hygiene products,” Cress said.
“Oh. Okay. Anything else?”
“Wait.” Cress reached behind her shoulder and tugged something. An enormous iron broadsword emerged. She placed it in the container. “My, uh, it is a tool for embroidery. And these”—she tugged two ancient-looking three-pronged daggers from the small of her back—“are implements for posture alignment.”
“Scoliosis.” The TSA agent nodded dully. “My daughter wears a brace, too.”
“Oh, and”—Cress reached into her boot and pulled out a switchblade.—“this is a hair barrette. And this,” she said, pulling a wicked spiked ball on a chain out of nowhere. “This is a pretty ankle bracelet.”
The agent’s eyes dulled further. “All-righty then. Head on back through the gate.”
Cress stalked back through. The x-ray beeped; the light turned red. Cress growled and lashed out with her elbow, smashing the side of the machine. The light died; the beep turned into an electronic moan.
Cress turned, threw a handful of glittery green dust in the air, and scowled at the TSA agents around her. “Your security systems are malfunctioning.”
“Oh, they must be.” They all nodded mechanically as Cress replaced all her weapons, slotting them back into invisible sheathes on her body. “You’re okay, honey. Go on through.”
Bart reluctantly followed her. “Wait for me, darling…”
I sighed. How nice it would be to be Cress. And not because she was young, absolutely gorgeous, and bonded to Donovan. Cress knew exactly what she was doing. If there was a problem she couldn’t solve, she just punched it in the face until it went away. I envied her strength, but most of all, I was jealous of her confidence. Cress didn’t doubt herself.
I used to be like that. I missed that certainty, that self-belief. Now, all I had left was a niggling doubt that I was missing something important.
Chapter
Seven
The plane ride was a nightmare, mostly because of Cecil. Nate and Eryk failed to realize he’d packed baby bottles filled with vodka. Cecil got horribly drunk in the first hour of the first flight, screamed, cried, and threw up on the floor. At one point, a red-faced man sitting in front of them turned around and told Nate to shut his baby up. Cecil reached into his diaper, pulled out an adult-sized turd, and flung it at the man’s head.
Luckily, Nate was gorgeous, and the flight attendants all assumed Cecil was just a fussy baby, so they took turns trying to soothe him. Cecil spent most of the flight napping with his head nuzzled between their boobs.
The only part that went smoothly was the sprint to catch our connection in Denver. On the next flight to Madison, all of us were sitting in different parts of the plane. I had a single middle-row seat in between a young college boy and a tall, dark man in a turban. Donovan was eight rows back on the aisle. Cress and Bart sat further toward the front. I had been keeping half an eye on her, mindful that Bart wouldn’t be able to hold her back if she decided to stab someone. But after we started to take off, I noticed she had gone quiet. I took a peek and saw her head tilted to one side. She was asleep.
Suddenly, her terrible mood made sense. She was exhausted. None of the company had slept in the last few days. They’d been out both nights, searching for traces of Connor and his minions.
Once the seatbelt light flicked off, I breathed a sigh of relief. As long as everyone kept quiet, we’d make it to Madison, Wisconsin, and I could start looking for Audrina.
A shadow fell over me. Donovan leaned down and tapped the turbaned man next to me on the shoulder, gesturing for him to get up and switch seats. To my surprise, the man got up instantly and moved into Donovan’s seat.
“How did you do that?” I asked him. “Normally you have to beg, throw punches, and submit yourself to the mercy of the Am I The Asshole posts before you can ask someone to switch seats with you on a plane.”
