Page 25 of Casting Butterflies

“No.”

Figured my first time over the big pond—AKA the Atlantic Ocean—and it would be work, work, work. Assuming I stuck with Misha.

How did I know he was the good guy? Sure, he didn’t have great big claws like the pernicae, but he’d not exactly been nice since we met. Heck, he’d tried to steal the necklace from me. He’d not hidden his displeasure that the spirit inside chose me as its vessel. For all I knew, he planned to get me somewhere he could stake me out as a sacrifice to steal it!

Did he have my best interests at heart? What made me think I could trust him? I glanced at the snoozing Cedric and wondered how we could have a private convo about my doubts. I trusted the cat. He might not like me, but I also didn’t think he’d see me come to harm. After all, the last time I had my butterfly nightmare, he’d been the one to nudge me awake—Flo, stop your caterwauling. You’re disrupting my sleep.

Somehow, someway, I’d have a talk with Cedric and if he thought any of my doubts valid, then bye-bye Misha. I didn’t need him to get to Russia—assuming I should even be going. I could travel on my own. I didn’t have a passport, but I had great boobs and an ability to turn on the waterworks at will. Worked great that time the cop pulled me over for speeding.

I’d play the poor innocent tourist who’d been robbed. Or the flirtatious vixen who would make them think she’d put out. Or I’d be sneaky. With all the trains crisscrossing Europe, surely, I could find one to hop. Ride the rails like a hobo. A locomotive vixen with a quest.

I wished I had a pen and paper so I could make note of that awesome phrase for the book I, one day, planned to write.

Eventually, I fell asleep, lulled by the noise of the engines, tired from the day’s events.

For once, I didn’t dream of butterflies but of a man with pointy ears peeking through his platinum hair, his hands on the waistband of his pants about to reveal⁠—

Nothing because I suddenly got woken by Misha barking, “Rise and shine, Beavertail. We have company.”

10

A few things hit me as I blinked the sleep from my eyes. One, Misha wore a shirt and wasn’t about to reveal what hid inside his pants. Two, according to the pressure in my ears, the plane descended, and finally, “Can you repeat that?” because, surely, I’d misunderstood.

“I said we have company, Beavertail.”

Apparently, I’d not imagined the rude nickname, and it took precedence. “Beavertail? Seriously? What’s wrong with using my name? Florence, or if that’s too hard to remember, seeing as how your height is impeding the ability for your brain to receive blood, Flo.”

“Flow makes me think of a river.”

“Which is better than an ugly flat paddle-shaped tail on a smelly, animal with buck teeth.”

“Beavers are your national mascot,” he pointed out.

“Find something else because I don’t like it,” I huffed.

“Don’t care. Now as I said, Beavertail, we have company.”

“How is that possible. We’re still in the air.”

“Have you already forgotten the pernicae?”

“What makes you think it found us? There aren’t exactly any windows to see.” I waved a hand at the sealed compartment.

Thunk.

The impact of something hitting the plane would have been daunting on its own. The fact I could see a dent where it hit? Good thing I’d barely had anything to drink or I might have pissed my pants.

“Oh shit.” I gulped.

A grim-faced Misha pulled his gun.

I scrambled to my feet. “Hold on. You can’t shoot that thing in here. One hole and you’ll depressurize the whole cargo area.”

“Flo’s right,” Cedric stated, standing and stretching atop the pallet where he’d been napping.

“This is for when the pernicae manages to tear through the fuselage.”

“Surely it can’t⁠—”