Page 67 of Feral King

He flinches. “Fine.”

“Fine what?”

“Fine. Your father needs surgery and you need to be there.” He flicks his eyes to the duffel bag on my shoulder. He gently takes it and walks over to the sedan, opens the back door, and sets the bag inside. “I’m coming with you.”

“Julian, you don’t have to?—”

“I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you what’s happening.” He turns to me. “You were almost run off the road five minutes ago. Someone is following you, targeting you. And you think I’m going to put you on a plane to New Orleans alone?”

I should argue, but I’m too tired. I glance over at Ethan.

“He can’t fly like that. He needs to rest.”

“Ethan’s staying. He’ll run security from here.” He holds the door open and gestures for me to get inside.

I sigh heavily.

“Lyra.”

I sigh one more time, glancing at the highway as if some alternative might present itself in the middle of the road.

I get in the car, Ethan at the wheel.Julian climbs in beside me.

“Cancel your ticket,” he says, taking out his phone.

Before I can argue, I watch as he books two first-class seats, of course.

I stare out the window, trying to decide if I’m grateful, mad, or scared.

Probably a bit of all three.

I close my eyes.

When Julian’s hand finds mine, I let him take it.

CHAPTER 24

JULIAN

Lyra once told me New Orleans smelled like jasmine. If I close my eyes, I can almost sense it.

We land at Louis Armstrong just after midnight. I arranged a car to pick us up from the airport through a private service. The driver’s name is Remy. I pay him in cash. He doesn’t ask questions.

Lyra is quiet beside me in the back seat, her duffel bag tucked between her feet. She’s quiet. She didn’t sleep on the plane, neither did I.

“The SUV was found ditched in a parking lot off Atlantic Avenue.”

I have Ethan on speaker. He spent the time we were in the air getting to the bottom of who had tried to run Lyra off the road.

“Anything useful?”

“Yes and no. It was wiped clean—no prints, no registrationmatch. But we pulled traffic footage and got a partial on the driver.”

“And?”

“Chinese national. Or at least Chinese-presenting. The facial recognition hit came back linked to a visa registered through a Flushing-based import company that we’ve already flagged as a triad front.”

The highway ahead seems dark, flat, and endless. I shift in my seat, processing the information.