Die By Night

by Kaitlynn Aisling

  Or at least, I’ve always thought myself to be human. But even if I am half-vampire, I still haven’t grown up with the knowledge, acceptance, or longing for some man to be my fated, eternal soul mate. It’s never been in the cards for me.

  I always thought I’d find someone likeable, someone who knew how to play cards, was patient with kids, and listened to a little rock every now and then. I hoped for someone who could be a stable partner. I didn’t sign up for someone who would take my all my options in the blink of an eye. I didn’t dream of someone who would snatch my freedom away without a thought to my feelings on the matter. I never wanted someone to become my entire life without my consent.

  Gridlocked.

  Gavin has no idea. Corner a woman, and you’re liable to get a wildcat; this wildcat is getting ready to bare her claws.

  The problem with that thought? If I believe what I’ve seen, Gavin actually has claws. And if I make him angry with my figurative ones, he might extend and flex his literal ones. I shudder against him, feeling a spontaneous measure of fear toward the very man who holds me.

  It’s wrong.

  This is the first time the anam has proclaimed that word in association with Gavin; except I suspect it’s not in response to Gavin, but rather my reactions to him. I should support him, lead beside him as female alpha, and trust in his guidance. I should submit to him.

  Ha! Sorry, inner wolf self, or whatever you are, submit is not in my vocabulary, and I have no plans to make any edits any time soon.

  “Na h-uile la gu math duit,” Gavin says to the group, the words rolling off his tongue.

  “And to you, Rìgh,” Silas replies.

  The pack disperses, Silas leading his group into the residential area to gain transportation. Robert lingers for a few minutes, and then trails behind. I send a silent choo-choo after the skinny little caboose man. Heather stays behind with Connor, Gavin, Hawke, and me.

  The fact that the rest of the pack has been dismissed means that Gavin counts the coming argument as a mere formality. I’m not going with their group, because their group is already gone.

  “Don’t count me out so soon,” I mutter beneath my breath.

  “What was that, lass?” Gavin leans down with the words to better hear me, before thinking better of it and lifting his head. “I’d rather no’ know.”

  Our exchanges are becoming predictable, which would also indicate that I’m about to lose. Again. Why couldn’t I have been given a mate who would bend a little?

  Because then you wouldn’t respect or desire him so, Nat.

  If I could tell my inner woman to shut up without being a complete psycho, I would. It spells disaster that my subconscious is now agreeing with the anam. Trouble. Gavin and his world are nothing but trouble.

  “Let me go,” I growl.

  Gavin does some growling of his own at that command, causing Hawke to chuckle and Connor to look nauseous. I reckon I haven’t put him in an easy situation. Connor is my bodyguard, but he’s also Gavin’s subject, or whatever term the almighty king uses to refer to his serfs.

  When Gavin does not oblige my polite request, I stomp on his foot, paw, whatever. He jumps back in surprise, and nearly takes me with him, except for the fact that Hawke reaches out to stop me from following Gavin in his tumble. He doesn’t hit ground, but it’s a close call. His arms swing back and forth as he attempts to gain his balance. It’s the most human that I’ve ever seen him, all his kingly demeanor set aside in the interest of avoiding a fall.

  Righting himself and regaining balance, Gavin’s eyes dart everywhere, never quite landing on any one person. It must have shocked him for me to physically retaliate like that.

  Hawke’s hand slides down my sleeve-covered forearm to land on the side of my hand, causing an uncomfortable burn. I jump away and closer to Gavin. I avoid both men’s gazes, unwilling to catch the pleasure likely residing on Gavin’s face at my move closer, and not wanting to see Hawke mouth you’re welcome again.

  It takes more effort than it should to distance myself from Gavin’s radiating body heat. This time, I take extra care to also avoid Hawke’s general vicinity. The two men need to give me some space. Surprisingly, if I had to choose right now, I’d pick Connor to be my companion. At least he is silent. Of course, if I spend too much time with Connor I’ll be wrapped in bubble wrap, and they’ll have to roll me onto the plane. Maybe I should mention some of the dangers of flying to him? I could talk about air pressure disruptions, describe the possibility of oxygen masks dropping from above, the dangers of loose luggage falling from compartments…

  “You know, Connor, airplanes are notorious for—”

  “Lass, let’s no’ give Connor a heart attack before our flight,” Gavin interrupts.

  Still avoiding his gaze, I nod, feeling glum. I’m not sure if Connor would have said something to Gavin or not. There’s no other mode of travel to Scotland. We have an ocean to cross. Which ocean would that be again? I’ve grown up along the Pacific, but the other side…the Atlantic.

  “We still need to have this out,” I say.

  My stupid pride demands it, even though it’s pointless.

  Connor, Hawke, and Heather walk back into the forest. Gavin stays in place. From beneath my lashes, I can see his exhausted expression. He sighs heavily.

  “Are you goin’ tae look at me, little mate?”

  Do I have to?

  “You promised.”

  Way to throw that in my face. How quickly my outlook changed with just the simple knowledge that the rest of the pack will be in my hometown, while I’ll be travelling farther from it than I ever have before.

  “Why Astoria? Why not New York City? Or San Francisco?” Why my sanctuary?

  “I had a general idea o’ where tae search for you. The witches gathered at Samhain tae scry for your location.”

  Right, I remember this conversation from our swim in the pool. The witches, that Gavin are repulsed by, helped him find me. But why? Why would a group that he hates help him? And what the hell is Samhain?

  “You hate the witches.”

  “I do no’ hate them. I do no’ trust them. They are devious, conniving.”

  “So you want their forecasts and expect them to give them to you, but they’re treated as outcasts? Despised for the very same traits that you’re using?”

  “Still referring tae them as forecasts, eh?”

  “Don't avoid the question.”

  “Witches are chosen by the spirits, but it impossible for us tae know the intent o’ the spirits that have claimed them. Such power is no’ natural.”

  “Why—”

  “I hate to interrupt your powwow, but we have a plane to catch,” Hawke says, interrupting my question.

  I hesitate, but then once again decide to be an adult about it. If I throw a fit, nothing will change. As far as I know, if I break my promise to Gavin, the cuffs come out to excuse my ensuing hysteria as they drag me onto a plane. Regardless of what I say or do now, we are getting on that plane. Nothing will come of a tantrum right now.

  They all look to me expectantly. I start walking.

  It’s not a far walk from the subdivision to the airport; it seems to loom larger with every step I take. In our new smaller group, Connor is the caboose. I can feel his eyes zooming all around, analyzing the ground for stray acorns that might serve as tripping hazards. Or maybe on the lookout for rabid squirrels? Or even elderly, large birds of prey that might somehow mistake me for a miniature dog . . . One never can tell with the local wildlife.

  After all the walking we’ve done, you’d think it’d have gotten easier, like maybe my legs would be numb to discomfort, but a side effect of little Liam seems to be swelling, and backaches, and fatigue, all of which is exacerbated by our little treks.

  “Almost there, queenie,” Hawke promises from beside me.

  Gavin must be irritated with me, as he and Hawke have switched places in our little line-up. Normally, Hawke takes point, while Gavin stays close. Righ
t now, he’s close to Heather instead. Well, he can just be irritated. I’m irritated myself.

  It’s crazy how our minds work, or maybe it’s just my hormones gone haywire, but despite understanding the outcome to most of what has occurred thus far in my relationship with Gavin, I still have the urge to do the irrational. I still fight against the desire to run, as far and as fast as possible to escape the inevitable. Fight or flight? With me, it’s a constant fight not to take flight.

  When did I become such a coward?

  “So, just how big is this Cessna?”

  “The plane sits six.”

  I shudder at the thought. That’s a really, really, tiny plane if it will only hold six. Most planes carry two hundred and forty-seven passengers or something. What does a girl have to do to get a Boeing?

  We reach a little office sitting a mile in front of a huge, metal building.

  The office is warm, for which I am grateful. Those uncomfortable metal frame chairs, the ones with the maroon cushioning that sticks to your thighs when you move to stand up, line either wall. Several windows take advantage of the gorgeous views of field on one side, and the unfortunate view of a single runway with water glinting behind it on the other side.

  Behind the desk a man leans back in a rolling chair, sunglasses perched on his nose. The lip of the desk covers his feet from view, but I suspect that they’re balanced on the desk. In fact, I think he may be sleeping.

  Please, oh please, don’t let that be our pilot.

  Blond scruff lines the bottom of his face. His hair is tousled, thrown all over his head, longer on one side than the other.

  Did he just snore?

  Gavin clears his throat, but there’s no response from the scruffy man. Hawke laughs, while Heather stares out at the sea with longing. I’ve never paid much attention to her, but I appreciate that Gavin listened to my request to take her over Athol. I hope we have no use for a midwife at all on this trip, but it’s still reassuring to know she’s here.

  Gavin steps up to the desk and thumps one fist over the top. The man in the chair rolls backward, his sunglasses sliding down, exposing sleepy green eyes. He manages to regain his balance and pops to his feet.

  “Well, hello, friend!” he greets us in a cheerful, booming voice.

  He talks like those guys from Montana do on TV. His accent is all Midwestern USA; a good ol’ boy minus the southern drawl.

  “Hello. I’ve scheduled a flight with Dennis tae Vancouver.”

  “Right you are! You all ready to set sail to the skies?”

  I’m not sure if Gavin has realized it yet, but my sinking suspicion that this man is our pilot is sinking even deeper.

  “Yes. Where is Dennis? I was told that he would be ready for takeoff by 1:00.”

  “Oh, I’m ready, Mr. MacCrae! Raring to go! I’ll just do one more check of the plane while you fill out some papers, and we’ll be ready to sail!”

  “You are Dennis?” Gavin is incredulous, though I’m not sure why.

  If it can go wrong, it will. Murphy’s Law and all that.

  Dennis laughs as if this is the most hilarious thing he’s heard all day, which if he just woke up, I guess it’s possible. My stomach twists into tighter and tighter knots. It gets worse when Dennis catches sight of Heather and sends a wink her way. She avoids his gaze, as if to meet eyes with the man would be a sin. I notice that her hands are clenching in front of her. Is she also afraid to fly with this napping yahoo, or is she fearful of men in general?

  It’s something I’ll have to research later, after I manage to avoid a heart attack on the little plane we’re about to board.

  “Now, if you would just read over these legal papers, I’ll go about my flight check.”

  Legal papers, as in we, the crazy people who are willing to let this yahoo fly us, are willing to forego all legal action if we all bite the dust in a huge, burning crash. I think I may swoon again. That’s the standard reaction to this situation, isn’t it? I mean, even Gavin looks dubious and it’s his plan!

  Dennis marks huge, swooping Xs on several different papers.

  “I’m going to need each adult to sign here, here, there, theeeree, heeerree, and here!” he says, with another bright smile sent Heather’s way.

  Crazy man. It’s not natural to be that happy, but Gavin still follows Dennis’ instructions, not concerned with the probability of a mental illness in our pilot. As soon as the pen is in motion, Dennis makes his way from behind the desk. When he passes by the rest of our merry little band, he gives a slight bow to Heather and then strides out the door.

  “Well. That just happened,” I say.

  “Right you are, then!” Hawke replies, mimicking Dennis’ slightly obnoxious accent.

  “Come, lass. I need you tae sign th—”

  “Hereeeee, and herreee, and thereeee, if ya would now?” Hawke interrupts Gavin.

  He actually gets Heather to laugh with his imitation. Hawke smiles.

  “Might you have a human mate, Heather?” he asks.

  Her laugh dies as she has a coughing fit. Connor steps behind her and gives her a couple of not so gentle pats to the back.

  “Not likely,” Heather recovers to say.

  Huh. I’m human. Is that not desirable? Oh, yeah—it’s not. Been there, done that, had the conversation/argument with Gavin already.

  Everyone signs easily, not showing any of the reservations they must have—I mean, didn’t they see that guy? He seems like the type to get distracted midflight and attempt crazy maneuvers to escape his boredom, or worse, he might decide he needs another nap instead.

  While Connor signs, I make use of the surprisingly clean restroom in preparation of our trip. I step out to see Heather waiting for her turn.

  “I have your vitamins ready,” she offers tentatively.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I try to be polite about it; after all, this isn’t her fault. Although, it may be her fault that the stuff is so dang nasty. She reaches into her cross body bag and gives me another green vial. I take it, but wait to drink it, trying to see if there are little, nearly microscopic organisms in it or anything. I don’t see anything, but then again, I don’t get to look as long as I want because Heather waits until I’ve downed it before she goes into the bathroom. It doesn’t feel like anything is slithering down my throat.

  When everyone else has given their cursive consent to entrust their lives to Dennis, or as he will be known in my head, the ungrim reaper, I step forward to the desk. Gavin holds out the pen, an expectant look on his face.

  “They have you assigned as Mrs. MacCrae,” he says.

  “Still no ring, Gavin. No papers, no rings, and no consent, equals no marriage.”

  He huffs out a huge sigh, but lets me sign as I should.

  After scrawling Natalie Dontesk four or five times, I lose count. The ink on my last K is not even dry when Dennis swipes it across the desk and shuffles it into a semi orderly stack. He must have come back in while I was signing my life away. Gavin shouldn’t have worried, as Dennis does not care how we sign, so long as we do sign.

  “Follow me!”

  We follow Dennis. I imagine that after this, Gavin will invest in a pilot’s license. It must rankle the alpha to have to relinquish control to another.

  I almost fall on my face when I look up to the plane. It isn’t a biplane; Gavin was right about that. But still, this plane could be a real plane’s toy. It’s like a miniature replica of a plane. I imagine it wouldn’t take much to shoot it out of the sky. Gavin reaches for my hand once again, sensing my fear, but once again I deny us both the comfort of touch. Because beyond my fear, is anger. A lot of it. It’s not all directed toward Gavin, but a large part of it is, if only because he’s the only available target right now.

  If I could go back, I’d kill Akim for this. Slowly.

  Since when have I been so sadistic? Oh, right, since the night I went for gas and never made it back home.

  “Welcome to the beautiful coast of
Baker Bay,” Dennis says with a smile.

  He’s either oblivious to the thick tension, or he’s chosen to ignore it.

  “I’m excited to fly you all to Vancouver. We don’t normally fly to that airport, but anything for you, Mr. MacCrae.”

  In other words, the almighty dollar has written our flight plans for today. I should be appreciative of all of this, I know. Gavin is willing to spirit his mate and unborn child back to the land he just escaped, in order to protect us. He’s willing to lay down who knows how much money on a private plane, and pay for a special route, to ensure we get out quickly. The problem is that he’s also willing to take said mate and child away from their home and family.

  I stop for a minute, tempted to hunch down and place my hands on my thighs to catch my breath. The Cessna has an N, followed by three numbers, then a CS painted on the side. The plane is polished to a gleaming white, with a few scratches in the paint near the wheels. The body of the plane is white, while the tail, propeller, and the area around the view window is painted black. There are small wave designs underneath the painted numbers and letters. It’s well kept, but still . . .

  Dennis has already lowered the stairs. Gavin enters first. It takes everything in me to accept his hand and walk up the steps to join him.

  “A beaut, ain’t she?” Dennis prompts from behind me; he must have followed me up the steps.

  The interior is gorgeous. The seats are black and white leather, giving a modern Moto feel to them. Thankfully, they look comfortable, as sitting for long periods of time in my condition is never enjoyable.

  “Yes, a beaut,” I repeat reluctantly.

  The six seats are divided into rows of two. One of us will have to sit next to Dennis up front. Gavin stands aside to let me pick a seat; I choose the left-hand seat in the middle row, closest to the window. I’ve read that the wing seats are always the safest. It seems to make sense. If we crash in a nosedive, the two seats upfront are done for, and if we crash into a body of water, I’ll be in a better position to escape the plane than if I were in the rear.

  Despite the logic of my choice, my hands shake as I attempt to buckle my harness. Gavin reaches over to do it for me, tenderness evident in his expression, but I slap away his hands. The shakes get worse, as Gavin looks in the opposite direction, presumably to give me a chance to get a handle on my nerves. It’s so bad that I still haven’t managed the feat when Dennis goes seat to seat to ensure we’ve buckled up. At this point, Heather and Hawke are seated behind us, and Connor is up front.