Biting Cold - By Chloe Neill Page 0,36
Ethan suggested. “A complete paper set of the Encyclopedia Britannica? A lifetime supply of grilled meat?”
“I like all those ideas, but I was thinking a magical spray I can use on Mallory to wash the crazy off her.”
“Like Lysol for evil?” Paige asked.
“Something like that, yeah.”
Ruminating on that impossibility, we fell silent again. I heard the occasional clicking of Ethan’s phone in the backseat, and I took the opportunity to update Jonah on our progress and the shifters’ intervention with Mallory.
His text message in response encapsulated the problem: WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH TWO TATES?
I wished I had an answer to that.
Just as promised, the jet was sleek and white. It was parked in the middle of the tarmac, where a set of stairs unfolded to the ground.
We waited in a small lobby while the plane was prepared, and then headed outside when they called our names. Paige ascended the stairs first. I followed, and Ethan brought up the rear.
“Good God,” I said, glancing around the fuselage. “This is definitely the way to travel.”
The cabin was divided into two sections—the first held rows of chairs much like a normal plane, and the second held a conversational area with a couch and flat-screen television. All the surfaces were clad in buttery leather or gleaming wood, and the carpet was a thick, lush taupe.
“Not bad, hmm?” Ethan asked, taking a seat and buckling his seat belt with a click. Paige sat in a chair behind us, the stack of books in her lap.
I took the seat beside Ethan, and the steward immediately closed the door. As soon as the door was secured, we were moving.
“Very efficient,” I said.
Ethan nodded. “The faster we’re on our way, the faster we’re home.”
“And we move from one bit of drama to another.”
The steward, a tidily dressed woman in a white shirt and navy skirt, brought us glasses of orange juice. “Beverage?” she asked.
I thanked her and took one. I was starving.
“Also, if you’d turn off all electrical devices, please,” she said, then disappeared behind us.
Ethan pulled his cell phone from his pocket to turn it off but stared down at the screen. Whatever he saw there, it wasn’t good.
“Bad news?” I asked, not that there was much guesswork needed given the expression on this face.
He turned off his phone and slid it back into his pocket, his expression carefully neutral. “The shofet has met. Whatever their conclusion, Darius is on his way to Chicago to announce it.”
My stomach twisted. If Darius was traveling across the ocean to make some kind of GP pronouncement, the news couldn’t be good.
“That’s disconcerting,” I said.
Ethan nodded. “I’m sure Darius will have choice words about their decision.”
“Darius always has choice words. And I get the sense he likes to hear himself talk.”
“Most men in power do, I find.”
The steward walked back to the front of the plane. Ethan signaled her, and she nodded back.
As the plane ascended sharply into the air, the smell of roasting meat filled the cabin. My stomach grumbled, and loudly.
Ethan chuckled. “Hungry much?”
“When am I not?” I grumpily asked. “I suppose they’re bringing you dinner?”
“That wouldn’t be a very wise move when I know you’d pounce on a meal before I could get at it.”
The steward appeared at my side, presented me with a silver-domed plate, and then whipped off the dome.
The sight and smell of sizzling steak made my mouth instantaneously water. And beside it, a tidy pile of bright green broccoli, a scoop of garlic-permeated mashed potatoes, and a Thermos of blood. As I stared down at it, she delivered a similar plate to Paige.
“Oh, sweet God,” I said appreciatively, my eyes all but eating the food.
“Omaha’s finest,” Ethan said with a smile. “For a good night’s work.”
The man procured steak to reward me. Say what you might about Ethan Sullivan, but he knew just how to butter me up. On the other hand, I wasn’t convinced I’d done anything right. “When we arrived here, we had one Tate and one book. We now have two Tates and zero books.”
“The book is a move in the right direction.”
“And the Tates?”
There was fear in his eyes. “If you have a preferred god, Sentinel, I suggest you start praying. And soon.”
I couldn’t fault the ride on a multimillion-dollar jet. It was even smoother than a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes, and a helluva lot faster.
We flew out across the dark waters of Lake Michigan before landing at O’Hare, my delightful meat coma giving way to relief as the