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Frost’s murmuring something about possible magical trees in the desert when I cut him off and say, “Have you ever fought shadows before? Like the ones we fought at the hotel?”
All three men share a glance, communicating without words in that strange way they often seem to use.
Kian snatches the bottle away from Malix. Before he presses the rim to his lips, he says, “No. The shadows are new.”
Malix shrugs. “Felicity must’ve learned to control them to use against us. She can’t keep that shit up though. She isn’t strong enough.”
I sigh. “Again, could anyone tell me who Felicity is?”
Kian gives me a narrow-eyed look, and I think he isn’t going to respond. Until he does. “Felicity is our alpha’s mate.”
Shock tingles up my spine. My alpha’s mate is Sable, and
I just can’t… she’d never hurt her own people. I grab the bottle from Frost and take another sip. Smaller, this time, just to calm my nerves.
“What the hell?” I say out loud, keeping my thoughts to myself. “Why would your alpha’s mate send shadows to attack you?”
Malix leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The easy smile he often wears fades away, and there’s a hard note in his voice when he speaks. “Felicity doesn’t think we should exist.”
It’s pretty clear from the stormy expressions on all their faces that there’s a history there with Felicity, and a lot of bad blood.
It’s not like I care. Because I don’t. Felicity’s right—they shouldn’t exist. They’re the three horsemen of the apocalypse, and I’m here drinking this ridiculously expensive whiskey with them because my goal is to rid the world of them.
But still… despite myself, I can’t stop being curious about them. My life was sheltered before I left Montana, and even in the ensuing years after, it’s been nothing more than boring and monotonous. They’ve got powers I’ve never seen before, and secrets I want to pry open with a crowbar.
It’s recon, I tell myself. Soon enough, the antidote will be complete, Frost and I will drink it, and then I’ll use whatever intel I manage to get now against them.
Easy peasy.
“Why doesn’t Felicity think you should exist?” I ask.
Kian shakes his head. “None of your business.”
“Fine. Whatever,” I snap, falling back against the cushion. Trust this fucking asshole to put a damper on my subtle attempts at interrogation.
Malix grabs a handful of chips, then looks at me. “What about you, kitty? You’re from Montana. What brought you all the way to New Mexico?”
“You,” I tell him with a wolfish, vicious grin.
Malix raises an eyebrow. “Me? Or us?”
“I’ve been tracking all of you for the better part of two and a half years, give or take.”
Frost straightens, his pale brows rising toward his hairline, while Malix and Kian exchange unreadable glances. Not surprise, not really—but definitely a reaction of some kind.
Fuck. I’ve been chasing after them for so long, I sometimes forget that it’s kind of weird for me to have devoted my whole life to this.
When Malix offers me the bottle again… I accept it.
My emotions are too raw, and I’m feeling too damn unsettled. I need to take the edge off. Maybe drinking whiskey isn’t the best way to do that, but I can’t really see a better option at the moment.
We talk some more as we keep drinking. Nothing too personal. Kian clings to his secrets like a spider to his web, and I don’t press. No use pissing him off and ruining any future chance of finding out what he’s hiding. But we discuss places we’ve seen, figuring out how close I came to finding them multiple times over the years—which makes me feel good. I thought I was the world’s worst tracker. Turns out, they were just always one step ahead of me.
When the Tullamore Dew is gone, Kian shatters the bottle on the ground, and Malix finds another bottle stashed in the cabinets. A lesser whiskey that tastes more like rubbing alcohol and cigarette ash. We talk about music and a mutual love of Written by Wolves, which Malix insists isn’t ironic. Then we shift topic to movies, and I’m not really surprised to learn Frost loves documentaries and Malix likes action flicks. Kian’s too busy brooding to bother giving his two cents.
By the end of the second bottle, I’m drunk. Not just tipsy. Not just woozy.
Drunk.
