Page 22 of Casting Butterflies

“Yup. Not much to look at, but she’s tough.” I’d inherited the Corolla from Charlie. We often joked it would outlast us both.

“We’ll take my rental.” Misha stalked—apparently his preferred mode of walking—to a slick navy-blue Tahoe across the street.

I would have argued, but it had all the bells and whistles. Heated seats—which my butt loved—electronic controls for everything—that led to Misha growling as I pressed every single one—and Car Play.

We drove to the airport listening to my favorite Sabrina Carpenter hits. The scowl Misha wore the entire way there? So worth it.

But the bastard got me back. Turned out we wouldn’t be riding in first, business. or even economy. Oh no. His plan to get me on a plane without a passport? Stowed away as cargo.

9

Somehow Misha managed to smuggle us aboard a cargo plane. On the one hand, at least we didn’t find ourselves crammed amongst luggage on a commercial flight. However, travelling amidst boxes and pallets of packages heading overseas didn’t win by much. For one, no seats meant I plopped my ass on my duffel to cushion my cheeks. Second, no snacks or beverages. Misha’s offer of a protein bar got him a dirty look—for the first few hours of the flight. By the fifth, I swallowed my pride—and ignored my taste buds—to feed my hungry belly. The tepid water he offered to wash it down? Definitely not as tasty as the vodka I’d left at home. And we won’t discuss my ignoble squat behind a stack where I almost ended up with a pee-coated foot because the plane chose that very moment to bank slightly. Thank fuck I didn’t have to do a number two.

As for the onboard entertainment? I took my mood out on Misha, whom I pestered with questions. I started with the basics.

“Who exactly are you? And don’t say just Misha. What’s your full name? Where are you from? Who are your people?” He’d mentioned them a few times, along with some mysterious hints at some elders. “How did you know I had the necklace? Who’s after it? What do you know of the spirit that hijacked my body? Why did the voice choose me?”

Misha blinked.

“Well?”

“The elders will have replies to your queries.”

“Oh no you don’t. I am not waiting that long. I want to know what the heck I got dragged into.”

Misha’s lips flattened. “As you Americans are fond of saying, it’s complicated.”

“And it is apparently my problem, so I think I deserve some kind of explanation. Let’s start with something simple. Who are you?”

“Misha.” I stared at him until he added, “Misha Titov, son of Marja and Pietro. I have three brothers, no sisters, and my grandmother, Dasha, is one of the elders I’m taking you to see.”

“Was that so hard?” I smile sweetly at his constipated expression. “I’m Florence Girard, but my friends call me Flo. Since we’re not friends, you can call me Oh Mighty Guardian of the Spirit.” Not even a hint of a smile cracked his stony expression. “You’re Russian,” I stated next.

“Yes.”

“From what part?”

“Not a place indicated on any map.”

My brow arched. “In this day and age, that seems unlikely.”

“It hasn’t been easy for my home to remain hidden, especially given how quickly technology has been evolving.”

“And you’re how old?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Curiosity. I’m thirty-seven. Your turn.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he muttered.

“Try me.”

He looked me straight in the eye, and this time a hint of a smile hovered as he said, “Ninety-three.”

I blinked. Studied him, noted his masculine features, his lack of wrinkles. I’d have pegged him in his late thirties, forties at most. “Damn. I need to know your secret.”

Cedric spilled it. “He’s not human.”