Gideon Book 3

GIDEON

We pull up to the plane fifteen minutes before it’s set to take off.

Anderson, the driver I’d hired after Bradshaw’s betrayal and subsequent death, gets out of the driver’s seat and walks around to the trunk to pull out our luggage.

I open my door and get out, Layla sliding across the seat to follow me.

She’s dressed in a comfy pair of gray leggings and a community college T-shirt. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and when she lets out a quiet yawn, her hand comes up to cover her mouth.

Every time I look at her, I think she can’t get more beautiful. Every time, I’m proven wrong.

I take our suitcases from Anderson, thanking him and sending him on his way. Layla walks by my side as we make our way to the plane.

Genesis and Constantine wait at the foot of the steps, talking to the pilot.

“Hey, guys!” Constantine says, waving a hand at us.

“Hey,” I reply. “Luggage?”

Constantine motions behind him at the belly of the plane, the door to the cargo slightly open. I duck under to throw our suitcases in there.

“You’re the last one here,” Genesis says. “Usually, you’re first.”

“I’ve got to share the bathroom now,” I tell her, nodding at Layla. Layla scoffs and hits my shoulder.

Constantine laughs. “Come on. Penny brought donuts.” He takes the steps up to the plane two at a time. Layla and I follow.

The private plane is a good size—comfortable for all eight of us, but not too big to feel ridiculous. Toward the front of the cabin, there are three rows of seats, two on each side separated by the aisle.

In front of us, there are couch-like seats on either side of the plane with a table in the middle. Two pink boxes sit on the table, both lids open so that the smell of baked goods fills the cabin.

“Oh my God, Penny, you’re a lifesaver,” Layla says, beelining for the donuts.

She looks in both boxes, face serious. Finally, she removes one—a chocolate-frosted yeast donut with colorful sprinkles. She takes a bite and lets out a quiet moan. “It’s been forever since I had a donut.”

Penny smirks at me. “Careful, Gideon. I might steal your woman if you’re not careful.”

“Keep buying me donuts, and you might have a shot,” Layla jokes.

I huff and sit on the couch opposite Penny. “I can buy you donuts if you want.”

Layla just laughs and collapses beside me, her thigh touching mine. She finishes off her donut, and I hand her a napkin to wipe off the grease and crumbs.

Her breath is artificially sweet, but her smile is white when she aims it at me, no hint of chocolate or colored sugar.

The pilot comes on board, followed by Genesis and Constantine. They close the door behind them as the pilot heads up to the cockpit. I can hear the co-pilot moving around, readying the plane for takeoff.

“Okay,” Genesis says, sitting down beside Penny.

She ignores the donuts, completely untempted.

“It’s a sixteen-hour flight from LA to Mykonos, and they’re ten hours ahead of us. We should arrive in Mykonos at eleven AM tomorrow morning—or one AM our time.”

“What’s the plan once we get there?” Lazarus asks. He’s got a donut in each hand, and his feet are propped up on the table. Penny shoves his feet off, tutting at him.

“We’ll check into the hotel to drop all of our stuff off and have the rest of the day to plan,” Genesis says.

I nod.

She continues. “Layla and I will be staying behind while the rest of you go to meet Balthazar Aristophanes for dinner at seven PM the next day.”

“His house?” Serena asks. She’s grabbed a plain glazed donut and has been carefully shredding it into bite-sized pieces on a napkin.

“No, the Baos restaurant,” Genesis says. “Louis and Reginald are already in Mykonos, so they’re scouting it out ahead of time. We’ll have plenty of time before you guys have to meet Balthazar to strategize.”

Genesis is far too good to do it, but I can feel everyone else’s gaze dart to Layla. Everyone seems to understand that I don’t want the specific contents of Balthazar’s letters to get to Layla.

She knows the vague idea of the problem with him, and she knows that she’s his target, but I don’t want her to get more involved than she needs to be.

Layla, for her part, is too engrossed in her second donut to notice.

“So,” Constantine says, dragging out the o, “who’s up for a game of cards?”

“Ooh, what game?” Layla asks.

“Kemps?” Lazarus suggests.

“Sorry, but I’m going to pass. I have papers to go over.” Genesis hikes her bag further up her shoulder as if to prove her point and moves to one of the seats up front.

“Since Kemps needs an even number, I’ll sit this one out,” I offer. I’ve never really been one for card games, and my mind is spinning too much to focus on a trivial game anyway.

The others accept our answers and divide themselves into teams. I tune them out as the teams start to quietly debate their signals.

Plus, I have the ultimate cheat if I was paired up with Layla. Our mind-link needs no signal whatsoever. Often when I hear her, her thoughts are like honey, warm, summery, and slow.

Not slow as in she was dull, but she took her time with things, pondering over a sunset or how to fold her clothes properly.

It is as if she puts time and energy into each thought she has. Right now her mellifluous thoughts are running fast, thinking of all the tricks she has up her sleeve to win the game.

I’d love to join but—all I can really focus on is the task ahead. What Layla had said last night about playing into Balthazar’s hands—I can’t help but worry that she has a point.

I know that she’s safe, but there have been plenty of other times when I thought she was safe only to learn the opposite.

We were going to Mykonos to talk to Balthazar, but what if he decided to take action before then?

I think back to the first time I’d met Helen’s father. They’d been throwing a birthday party for her mother—I couldn’t even remember how old she’d been turning.

Helen and I had had our agreement for a couple of years by then, and she’d insisted on me finally meeting her family.

She claimed it had something to do with her father wanting to meet the “important men in her life.”

I strongly suggested she’d just wanted to show me off to cousins and anyone else who dared think that she didn’t have the best things in life.

Their estate, which had already been impressive and lavish, was decorated extensively—a bit gaudy for my tastes, but it certainly fit in line with what I had expected of Helen.

The party had been held in the backyard, a large expanse of green with the beginnings of a sandy beach several hundred meters away.

Helen was a clone of her mother, their figures willowy and tall and their features sharp and elegant. But Helen had Balthazar’s eyes—shrewd, shifty, calculating.

The moment Helen introduced us, he sized me up, and, unless I’d been mistaken, he’d found me lacking.

He was probably one of those fathers that thought that no man was good enough for their darling daughter. He didn’t like me, which was fine with me.

I didn’t need to be liked by him.

But now that he knows of Helen’s fate, I highly suspect that that dislike has turned to hatred. While I can understand that he’s lost his daughter, I can’t feel sorry for him.

His daughter threatened my erasthai. There was no hope for her after what she’d done. And once Balthazar knew the true story—the truth of Layla and I’s relationship—he had to back off.

But there was a small part of me that worried that he wouldn’t.

***

Mother is too sick to get out of bed today, just like yesterday and the day before and the day before that. We ran out of food two days ago, but we ran out of money last week.

Father hasn’t been home the past few days, but I doubt that he’s spent that time working odd jobs like he’d said he would.

More likely, he took what little money Mother had squared away and took it to go drink or gamble.

I may be young, but I have ears. I hear when Mother and Father argue about his problems, when Mother had the strength to argue.

I hear when the landlord comes to the door every month, demanding payment that we can’t afford. And I hear when the angry men come, cursing at Father and telling him to “pay what he owes.”

I don’t know what he owes, and that worries me.

In all honesty, Mother probably needs a doctor. She’s always been sickly, but now, she’s extremely pale, with a faint greenish color creeping in at the edges.

Her hands are ice when she holds mine, and she can barely keep her eyes open.

Silently, I push the door to her and Father’s room. She’s quiet, but her chest moves up and down with her breath. I sigh and go to her side.

The bed is just a mattress, no frame, so it sits on the floor. I set the soup that the neighbor had given me next to Mother.

I debate waking her, wanting her to be able to eat it while it’s still hot, but a loud bang~ from somewhere in the house distracts me.~

Mother starts awake. “What?”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, grabbing her hand. It’s somehow even colder than it was before. “It’s probably just Father. Here, I got you some soup.”

I pick up the tin and show it to her. Mother smiles wearily at me as she moves to sit against the wall.

“Where did you get soup, Gideon?” Mother asks.

“Mrs. Simon. I offered to clean out her fireplace. She says that she’ll give me a few more cans once I’m done, too,” I tell her.

“That’s wonderful.” Mother reaches a hand out and strokes my cheek. Her touch is like a feather, no strength behind it. “You’re so resourceful.”

The door to the bedroom opens, slamming against the wall. I jump, turning around to see Father glaring at us. The stench of alcohol makes its way to my nose, and I fight a grimace.

“The house is a mess,” Father grumbles. He kicks his shoes off—boots so worn that the soles are barely hanging on—and shrugs off his coat.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Mother says.

I frown. “Mother’s been sick.”

“And what have you been doing, boy?” Father demands.

“Helping the neighbors in exchange for food,” Mother says, “which we’ve run out of.” The words should be pointed, but they’re not.

On a good day, Mother would ask Father where he’s been. But today isn’t a good day.

Father looks at the soup in Mother’s lap. “That’s all we’ve got? Boy, you better start working harder.”

I bite my lip to keep myself from saying something that will get me smacked. But when Father begins to reach for the soup, I can’t keep quiet.

“That’s for Mother,” I say.

Father pauses and looks at me, a not-so-nice gleam in his eye.

“Are you talking back to your Father?” he asks, voice quiet. It’s always the worst when he’s quiet.

“N-no,” I stammer, “but Mother’s been sick, and—” His palm against my cheek rocks me back before I can finish my sentence.

It’s so sudden, so harsh, that I can’t help but fall to the floor. My cheek throbs. I think the burn of his handprint will be on my face forever.

And when I look up, Father is sitting at the end of the bed, soup and spoon in hand.

LAYLA

“Gideon. Gideon!” I shake his shoulder harder. He still doesn’t wake up, his beautiful face twisted into a grimace. Finally, I pinch the junction between his shoulder and his neck. “Gideon!”

At that, he jumps awake. We’re in the first row of seats at the front of the cabin. Gideon had moved up here a couple of hours into the flight, and I’d joined him shortly after.

I’d been surprised to find that he’d fallen asleep, but I thought it was for the best.

I know that once we land, everyone will be too focused on the meeting with Helen’s father to bother to take a nap, despite the fact that our biological clocks will be set in the middle of the night.

But as Gideon had slept, I’d kept getting flashes of a dream—a memory? Soot in my throat, a tin of soup, the sharp smack of something against my face.

“What’s hap—Layla?” Gideon asks. He rubs his shoulder. “Did you pinch me?”

I shrug. “You wouldn’t wake up.”

“What time is it?” Gideon asks. He looks outside, but the sky is just as bright and blue as it was when he’d fallen asleep.

“Genesis said we still have a couple of hours to go. I think we’re over Europe—maybe France or Italy,” I say.

“Why did you wake me up, then?” Gideon asks.

“You were having a bad dream,” I tell him. “I kept getting glimpses, but not the whole picture. Do you want to talk about it?”

Gideon stiffens, his lips thinning out. “No.” It’s short and sharp, no wiggle room.

I frown. “Gideon, I thought we were past this.”

“Past what?” Gideon asks. I can’t tell if he’s feigning ignorance or if he really doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“You hiding things from me,” I say.

I look around to see that everyone else is asleep, but I still scoot closer to him and lower my voice. “You told me about your past with Louis, and you know I don’t care. What else possibly is there?”

“There’s nothing,” Gideon says.

“I don’t believe that. I felt you get hit,” I say.

“It was probably a fight,” Gideon says. “I don’t remember the dream.”

Whatever hints of emotions and thoughts I was getting before, I’m not completely closed off from. My mouth drops open.

“Did you seriously just shut me out of the mind-link again?” I demand.

“Layla—” Gideon sighs.

“You’re lying to me,” I hiss, “and I don’t like being lied to. And I really don’t like when you shut me out, especially when you still think that you deserve to be in ~my~ head. It’s a total double standard!”

“Layla, I really don’t want to have this argument here,” Gideon says.

“Then stop lying to me!” I slap my hand on my thigh to emphasize my point.

Gideon doesn’t flinch.

I glare at him and continue. “Whatever that dream was, it can’t be that bad. And even if it is, I don’t care! I love you, Gideon. I love all the parts of you. Why can’t you see that?”

Gideon stares at me for a moment, considering. My heart lifts, but then his expression closes off. It’s like I can physically see him closing the curtains behind his eyes.

“I don’t remember the dream,” he lies.

I purse my lips as my nostrils flare. But I don’t say anything. I turn forward in my seat, facing the wall ahead.

I’m tempted to try and shut off the mind-link from my side, but I remember how well that went the last time.

While I don’t think I’ll be kidnapped again anytime soon, I don’t want to risk it.

Instead, I leave it open and allow all of my angry thoughts and feelings to surge through.