Faelan leads me back to the car in silence. This time he doesn’t tug me along like I’m a fussy preschooler. Actually, he doesn’t seem to want to touch me at all. Which is good. I think if he did, I’d freak out in a major way, with this mess inside me.
He’s obviously pissed. He practically punched the elevator button into the panel to get the doors to close faster. It’s hard to care, though, with my own nerves on fire. I’m trying to take deep breaths and get this heat in my skin to pass. It’s so overwhelming, it’s actually starting to hurt. I don’t know what to do with it.
I hardly notice the wait for the valet to bring the car around. I barely register getting in the Audi or driving through the city. I’m focused so intensely on shoving down this crazy storm inside me that the rest of the world has become a blur of muffled noise and color.
My mind can’t seem to think past the embers in my skin, the need. I must be some kind of monster to feel like this about a guy I just met. About anyone. I need to get away from this thing. Somehow. But how? How do you get away from a feeling? For the first time, I understand why people jump off bridges. Everything is just too fucking loud.
I cover my face with my hands and try not to lose it.
A sharp zing fills my chest and something grips the back of my neck.
My eyes fly open and I jerk sideways, pressing my body into the passenger door. Faelan pulls his arm away—his fingers were wrapped around my nape.
“What the hell?” I say, rubbing the spot where he grabbed me. “Don’t touch me.”
He gives me a sideways glance, staying focused on the road. “I could barely breathe with all your turmoil filling the car. I just dampened your mood a bit with some of my own energy.”
“Yeah, next time don’t.” I’m not sure how he’d be able to calm me down with his own energy, considering how pissed he obviously is about me being dumped on him. But even as the thought comes, I realize the heat in my skin’s faded and he’s not as tense anymore. We’re on a curvy road through what looks like Malibu Canyon. How long have we been driving?
“The last thing I want is your hands on me,” I add, trying to make it clear how much I don’t want to be around him right now.
“Well, now. You seem spunky again,” he says, his tone wry.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“In Marius’s office, you were a mouse. Now you’re back to biting my head off.”
I squeeze my lips shut to hold back a retort. I close my eyes for a second and then say, “I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Aye.”
That’s all he says. Just “aye.”
I need to distract myself so I don’t hit him. I look out the window. “Where is this cottage?”
“It’s about three miles up this road, deeper in the canyon. There’s an ocean view.”
“I didn’t know there were houses out this far.”
“There aren’t. Marius never does anything the usual way.”
“Oh. Kay.” Now I’m nervous again.
“It’ll be better than a laundromat.”
I stare at him. How does he know where I’ve been sleeping the last few nights? Is he psychic or something?
He seems to sense my surprise. “Star and Ziggy, they were sending Marius information.”
Right. I’d almost forgotten about my traitor friends. So glad to be reminded.
“You’re clouding up the car again,” he says, sounding annoyed. “How in the hell are your emotions so pushy already?”
“Pardon me for having a feeling.” I fold my arms across my chest and lean away from him.
The necklace’s ability to smother things has apparently passed already. Maybe it was short-lived, like the burning agony of the thick metal torque. But what do I know? I have no clue what’s going on. Or where I’m being taken, what it’ll mean. I’ve always done things my own way, on my own. I don’t depend on anyone. And now—because I’m freaked out—I’m letting these creepy men push me around? It could be a huge mistake to go along with all of this. How can I be sure they’re telling me the truth? So far they haven’t explained much of anything at all.
I decide there’s no point in holding off on questions anymore, so I ask, “So, if I’m a mini-goddess or whatever—”
“Demigoddess.”
“Whatever. I’m a freak of nature. What are you?”
“It’s not polite to ask that question.”
“Seriously? You basically kidnap me and I’m supposed to act like Miss Manners now?”
“I haven’t kidnapped you. You’ve come of your own free will. And if you’d like to go back to that gutter in the Valley, I can drop you on the way back into Downtown tomorrow.” His voice has a slight edge to it, though I think he’s trying to sound casual.
I consider his offer and wonder if that’s the better plan, just having him take me back to my life—what there is of it. If that’s seriously an option. My feet are already burning to run, and I haven’t even gotten to this “cottage” yet. But if I am some sort of mutant, if I can really hurt people like I hurt Ben . . .
No, this is too volatile. Whatever I feel, I need to see where this goes.
I’ll give it a day. If I’m still not buying into the crazy by tomorrow night, then I’ll find a way out.
For now, though, I need to push for some answers. “You could at least tell me what a demigoddess actually is,” I say. “Like, does it mean I’ll be able to shoot fire out of my eyes or smite my enemies or get things half off on Rodeo Drive? It’s not like there’s recent data for this sort of thing, not since the fall of Rome, anyway. Is there literature, a pamphlet? A how-to manual?”
“Do you always talk this much?”
“Aren’t you supposed to explain things? Marius said I get whatever I want, right?” I give him a pointed look. “I want information.”
He sighs. “I wasn’t planning on keeping you in the dark forever, just until you get some sleep, so we could start the transition after a good rest.”
With the way I feel right now, I will not be sleeping.
We drive in silence for a few minutes before I try again. “You said Marius is a demi, like me, right?”
Faelan nods. “The son of Lyr, the god of the sea.”
Lyr . . . that’s not a god I recognize from World Civ. There was Poseidon, the Greek sea god. I get an image in my head of the Little Mermaid’s dad, the cartoon guy with the pitchfork. Not super awe-inspiring. And it definitely doesn’t fit the man I saw back in the skyscraper, other than the white hair.
His parentage doesn’t matter right now, though. Mine does. “My mother, you said she was . . .” I remember him saying the name Brighid. But all he told me was that she was a goddess—not much information, as explanations of deity parents go. “Who was she?”
He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.
My gut sinks at his reaction to my question, worst-case scenarios running through my head. “Oh crap.” I squeeze my eyes shut, like I’m bracing for a hit. “She’s the Queen of the Damned or something, isn’t she?” Then I mutter to myself, “The lake of fire and Hades, that all fits with my life so far.”
When only silence answers, I squint my eyes open to look at him.
He’s actually smirking.