“We’ll need to call in every single favor,” I said. “If we want to take down Godzilla, we need Mothra. Starting with…”
We turned to the four men keeping us captive.
I mean safe.
“You have nothing I want…” Grim said. My gut dropped, but then he stood off the wall. “Your prince, however.”
“I…” My throat caught, imagining what Grayson was going through. “I can’t make a promise for him.”
Gemma stepped up. “There is one way you can guarantee it.”
Gemma looked at Grim, and he laughed caustically. “Rich Girl, you are really pushing it.”
Sixty-Seven
GRAY
Story’s ghost wrapped around me. Her raspy whisper melded with the salt air flowing like moth-eaten lace into the room.
Nudge.
My head throbbed. My mouth thick with cotton and the taste of whiskey and lemon suckers.
Nudge.
“Is he dead?”
“Kick him again.”
I opened one eye. The room was different in the day, the shadows gone and the ghost with them. Three teenagers stood in a triangle above me, blocking the ceiling with their heads.
I’m still seeing ghosts.
“You look like shit,” Jo said.
Not ghosts, St. Germaines.
“Fuck you,” I grumbled, throwing my arm over my eyes. It was too bright in here, the salt air too bitter.
“No thanks,” Jo said.
The whiskey bottle in my hand felt too light.
Empty.
Goddammit.
I exhaled, sitting up against the wall.
Jo held a cigarette between her fingers, and reminded me a little of my sister Gemma—but without the mask mother forced her to wear.
Dark. Lonely.
It seemed Charles received all the aristocratic features of our father. And fuck, it was hard to tell what was going on underneath all of Keller’s hair.
“Come to fetch me for my grandfather?”
They all shared a look. “Not quite,” Jo said. “So we’re actually on the same side.”