My heart flipped. There was no version of reality where I could refuse her.
My father would have said this was why we shouldn’t mix with humans. They were fragile, reckless, liabilities. And yet every instinct I possessed aligned with one truth. If Artemis went somewhere, I would be there. If danger found her again, it would reach me first.
“Very well,” I said softly. “You come with me.”
She grinned—bright and determined—and warmth spread through my veins.
9
ARTEMIS
Arthur’s car should have been behind velvet ropes in a museum, surrounded by alarms and a cranky docent warning children not to touch anything.
Instead, it sat at the curb outside the library as if it had been summoned for a dramatic getaway scene. The gleaming, black classic car whisperedroyaltyandhand-waxed with the tears of the wealthy.
1955 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing.
“Please tell me this is a replica,” I said as Arthur opened the passenger door for me.
“It’s the original,” he said.
I gaped at him. “This should be in a climate-controlled vault.”
He blinked at me, clearly confused. “Why?”
“Because it’s worth more than my student loans, my job, and possibly my weight in gold.”
“I see.” He seemed to consider that. “I take very good care of it. But in my opinion, cars are meant to be driven.”
“That is not the reassurance you think it is.”
I hesitated beside the open door.
Spontaneity wasn’t usually my jam. I liked plans and schedules. Lists that could be color-coded and optimized for maximum efficiency. Six hours in a car with no clear structure should have made my skin crawl—it usually did.
But lately, I had been restless, and I couldn’t organize the feeling away. A part of me craved adventure or just something to knock my carefully stacked routines sideways.
And while my AuDHD brain was already calculating the sensory logistics of a six-hour drive—temperature fluctuations, gas stops, music selection, the probability of needing exactly the wrong snack at mile ninety-three—there was absolutely no universe in which I was turning down an invitation like this.
A beautiful man with a mysterious agenda had just pulled up in a million-dollar car and asked me to go somewhere interesting.
I wasn’t an idiot.
I slid into the seat. Because apparently the rational part of my brain had clocked out for the day and left Adventure Artie in charge. Adventure Artie had questionable judgment but excellent storytelling skills.
The interior smelled like leather, history, and the tears of at least four museum curators.
Arthur slipped into the driver’s seat, and gave me a small, earnestsmile. “Ready?”
No. Yes. Absolutely not. More than anything.
“Sure,” I said.
He pulled onto the road with the confidence of someone who definitely didnotbelong in the twenty-first century.
He checked the mirrors. Then checked them again, like he didn’t quite trust what they’d told him the first time. His posture was immaculate, shoulders square, hands placed with almost ceremonial care at ten and two. Not at all how I drove —slouched in the seat, one hand on the wheel, and music blasting.
The city blurred by, unfolding outside the window in familiar stretches. Old brick buildings hunched close to the street like they were sharing secrets. There was the coffee shop with hand-painted lettering, the bookstore I’d meant to visit for three years but hadn’t yet. The river flashed silver through the trees, wide and calm.
