dad who’s maybe not dead…it was all about your other right.”
“As long as we’re clear.”
“I have to hand it to you, lass, y’kept your cool.”
“Nonsensical babbling is an underrated camouflage technique.”
“Ha! Well put.”
“Not just that,” Berne insisted. “When you got a look at my other self. Weren’t you surprised at all?”
“Nope. Don’t even try,” Oz advised. “She doesn’t surprise. She lives in a constant zone of not-surprised. And if she ever is surprised, she’d die before showing it. I honestly believe that. She. Would. Die.”
“Jesus, Oz. Dial it back.”
Berne let out a snort. “Is that how it is, Lila? Or was it something else? Oz here didn’t warn you ahead of time?”
“Berne.” It was so rare to hear Oz use such a sharp tone, she almost did a double-take. “I’m not an outer. Your other self is your own business.”
Berne seemed a little taken aback, too. It didn’t help that they were all using raised voices; the Cessna’s engine, while not deafening, necessitated speaking louder than normal. “All right, lad, I meant no offense. I was just wonderin’.”
So is it a personal choice kind of thing? Who a Shifter tells about their true nature is generally frowned upon but ultimately up to the individual? Note to self: “Outing” is a major faux pas.
Regardless, time to straighten Berne out. “You’re the one who told me.”
“Wi’ respect, I did no such thing.”
“Your last name is Berne, for God’s sake. At some level, I’ve gotta assume your entire family wants people to know.”
For that she got a dry chuckle. “Ach, no. I’m the last Berne.”
“Oh.” Poachers? Or something more mundane? Because if it was poachers, maybe look into changing your name. If it’s not too late. Sounds like it might be too late. “Sorry. I’m the last Kai, if it’s any consolation.”
“Now why should that console me?”
Oh, I dunno…because my kind outnumbers yours thousands to one? More?
“Doesn’t console me, either,” Oz added. “I’m sorry. It sucks to be the last. For anyone, I think.”
“Careful, you’re showing depth,” she teased.
“Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
“Are you sure you didn’t know about Shifters until this week, lass? Because you’re taking insane risks with your own safety.”
“Why? Are you a shitty pilot?”
“I’m an incredible pilot. But weren’t you wurred? Even a bit?”
“Oh, please. Nothing to be wurred about. You’ve all had ample opps to devour me. Besides, you took precautions.” Berne had politely asked that she keep her phone in her purse, and her purse in the plane, which she respected, and not just because he’d been polite about it. “You didn’t have to worry about my purse, though—I left my .380 at home.”
“You didn’t bring a gun? I couldn’t tell, but I thought you…”
Excellent. Lila, two nights ago, had emptied her purse, grimaced at the inevitable detritus
(When did I have oyster crackers? Or soup?)
cleaned it, cut the lining, sprinkled a tablespoon of baking soda into it, sewed the lining shut, and went back to business as usual.
“Oh, you couldn’t smell anything? No idea I hadn’t brought a handgun?” she asked, giving off wide-eyed Orphan Annie innocence.
“Not even the shotgun,” Oz replied cheerfully, which was silly. Where would she have put it?
“Good Lord, Berne. Why would I bring a gun to an airport? I’ve got enough to do this week. I don’t have time for a body cavity search followed by a stint in lockup.”
“You are terrifying.”
“Why do people keep telling me that?”
“Because you’re terrifying?” Oz guessed.
“Not like regular Stables are terrifying,” Berne added. “You’re terrifying in an entirely unique way.”
“Thanks! Wait. I have the feeling that wasn’t a compliment. Let’s table my penchant for terrorizing random citizens around me and talk about the site—did you guys pick anything up?”
“No.”
“Which is a problem,” Oz added.
Lila waited, but Oz had apparently finished. “So…should I guess? Maybe play a round of charades? What?”
“Sam wasn’t there.”
Berne’s sentence hit like a dull thud. “You didn’t…find his body? Or you didn’t—”
“No body. No scent. No tracks—not that I think he could have survived. Two people went up,” Oz said, “but only one came down.”
It sounded impossible, so she sounded it out to be sure she had it right. “Sally’s parents boarded and took off together, they didn’t make any stops to refuel, but somewhere between D.C. and a muddy field in Iowa, Sam Smalls got off that plane.”
“Nailed it.”
“That’s correct, lass.”
“Did—was there a flight plan? Is there a rule about that?”
“You don’t have to file a flight plan,” Berne explained, “but Sue was meticulous. Two on board, no cargo, straight shot to MSP.”
“Well.