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Kaisin hunches over until his chin’s resting on the tablecloth, and eyes wide, says, “It is raised.”
Another thing about Nightshade is that it can produce hallucinations. That’s how the myth about witches being able to fly got started—hallucinations after using Nightshade in their potions.
Kaisin’s finally having some kind of reaction. Thank fucking God.
“Is everything okay?” Lex says close to her brother-in-law’s ear, making him jump up out of his chair, lifting the table a few inches in the process before its legs slam back to the floor, causing a clatter of dishware.
Everybody startles, worried looks flying around the room faster than any witch ever could.
“What are you?” he asks her, voice husky.
Head back, Lex side-eyes me. Me. Not Kordin.
But is it because she knows I’ll protect her or that I’m the reason she might need protecting?
Just like she didn’t inform me of her plans for tonight, I didn’t bother telling her mine.
“Kaisin!” Kordin shouts. “What’s gotten into you?”
Lowering himself so he’s eye level with Lex, Kaisin repeats, “What. Are.”
I’m out of my seat, around both the table and Kordin’s wheelchair before he can even finish. I grab him by the scruff of his neck and shove him away from Lex, making him stumble around, dazed, so I don’t have to kick his ass for getting in Lex’s face. Delirious or not, don’t fuck with my girl.
“All those shots before dinner must’ve caught up with him,” I say with a twist of my lips.
Focused on his baby brother, Kordin’s face turns the same color as a red Dahlia. “Get him out of here.”
Just the words I was looking for.
After thanking the hosts for the best meal I ever had—the food was decent; Lex was incomparable—and tossing out a handful of random goodbyes, I grasp on to Kaisin’s elbow and drag him through the house. Outside, more than a dozen flashy luxury cars greet us as I stop off at Kaisin’s Aston Martin to retrieve his garage door opener before pulling him down the steep driveway, my estimate of total value well over five million dollars by the time we reach the bottom.
Unlocking my Alfa Romero, I push Kaisin into the backseat. Almost instantly, a shrieking noise erupts from his throat.
“I need my ticket. Help me find my ticket,” he begs, still very much awake and alert, even if he is tripping absolute fucking balls.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Why isn’t he drowsy yet? He was supposed to be sleepy now, then hopefully passed out by the time we made it to his place. What the fuck do I do with this shit? I don’t want to babysit him, especially not after he was touching Lex.
He was touching Lex.
Leaning in, I pat Kaisin’s pockets, checking that his phone is on him as well as which pocket it’s in—front right.
“Got your ticket,” I tell him, quickly hiding my empty hand behind my back. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride. All right, man?” I shut the door on a string of incoherent rambling.
Since I already know his address from following him home several times, I drive around for a while, giving him enough time to wear himself out. Once I notice him spread out on the backseat, his eyelids struggling to stay open, I head to a busy shopping center, where I wait until he’s fully under to park. After a quick trip inside, I go to his place.
Parking in his garage, I wait until the door is closed behind my car to pull my laptop out, then open it up on the passenger seat. Once it’s fired up and the program I need is ready, I slide Kaisin’s phone out of his pocket and plug it in, immediately starting the process of retrieving every single piece of data from it and imaging it all.
Relaxing in my seat, I angle my rearview mirror on the backseat so I can watch Kaisin’s body for any movement. Other than the occasional rise and fall of his chest, he doesn’t stir.
Two hours and seven minutes later, it’s done. I put everything back, then half-carry, half-drag Kaisin inside his house, laying him on the floor next to his bed. His shoes and socks are off next, dropped carelessly along the path to his room like he did it himself in his drunken stupor.
Thankfully, he’s got an opened jar of peanut butter in one of his cupboards, so I grab that along with a spoon before going back out to the garage to get the small box from my trunk. Claws scamper around inside and tiny whiskers poke through a few of the holes in the cardboard when I lift it.
Returning to Kaisin, I dab some peanut butter around his mouth, nothing too crazy, just enough to be noticeable when he looks in the mirror later, then using his right hand—the hand he had all over Lex—I scoop out a good two-fingers worth before positioning his arm out to his side.
Our house used to get mice in the winter, usually in the attic, sometimes in the walls, but no matter where we heard that telltale scratching, my dad would set the traps the same way, with a tiny smear of peanut butter in the middle. And he’d catch them every fucking time, too.
The spoon plunged in the peanut butter, I set the jar on the nightstand, then go over to the threshold to release the rat I bought earlier. He doesn’t go straight for Kaisin, instead scurrying to the nearest wall, but he’ll get there. Mice and rats have that in common—they can’t resist peanut butter.
