Dangerous Deception (Dangerous Creatures 2)

Link glanced down at his Black Sabbath T-shirt and jeans. “Hopefully not too nice.” He sighed. “What are we doin’ wastin’ our time? We gotta go.”

Floyd dropped a hand on his arm. It felt warm and full of life, like Floyd always did. “Chill out. Your buddy said an hour. We might as well eat.”

Link made a face.

“Right.” She shrugged. “I might as well eat.”

Inside, the King’s Arms was all dark paneling and vintage signs. A formal wooden bar dominated the main room, with liquor bottles stacked neatly on the shelves behind the bartender.

Floyd grabbed a table in the corner, next to the window, and dropped down into one of the plain ladder-back chairs. Link glanced at the menu on the table and scrunched up his nose. “Traditional ploughman’s lunch and fish cakes? Scotch eggs? Mushy peas? What is this junk?”

Floyd studied the menu. “It looks like the traditional ploughman’s is a plate of bread, pickle, apples, and cheese.”

“Pickle, cheese, and bread?” Link shook his head and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “I’m glad I don’t eat anymore.”

She stood up with a menu in her hand. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. I’m going to order at the bar. I assume you don’t want anything.”

Link looked around at the other tables covered with plates of food. “Get me a Coke or somethin’. You know, so I don’t look weird.”

Floyd smiled. “The Coke won’t help.”

“Yeah? Just don’t let anyone put an egg in my Scotch, and I’ll be fine.” Link watched her walk over to the bar like she was just another student.

Link grabbed a napkin and scrawled some lyrics across it. Ever since Sampson and Nox found him in the trees after the accident, song lyrics had been floating around in his head. The only problem was, they sucked—which was a new thing for him. He’d been writing songs for as long as he could remember, about everything from his lunch to all the times Ridley had broken his heart. Until now, he was pretty sure his lyrics had kicked ass.

He stared down at the black lines stretching across the napkin.

What if I can’t write anymore?

There were probably a lot of things he wouldn’t be able to do anymore without Ridley. She was more than just his girl—she was his muse. It felt like everything started and ended with her.

Lose. Muse. Bruise.

Why you gotta get me so confuse?

Like I lost my favorite pair a shoes …

He dropped the pen.

I suck. I can’t do this without Rid. I just gotta find her.

“What are you doing?” Floyd asked as she put his Coke down on the table. “Are you writing a song? Anything good?”

He crumpled up the napkin and shoved it in his pocket. “Naw. I haven’t been able to write since I lost … her.”

Floyd seemed to take the comment in stride and sat down. But if he’d learned one thing about girls in the past year, it was that they usually weren’t thinking whatever you thought they were. Floyd had that weird look on her face again, the one where Link couldn’t tell if she was going to laugh or cry.

Girls.

“Ridley’s lucky,” she said. “You stick with her no matter what she does, or how bad she screws up. I wish someone felt that way about me.”

“Rid doesn’t mean to mess up. At least, not most of the time,” Link said.

Floyd rolled her eyes.

“Deep down, she’s a good person,” he said. “She just doesn’t want anybody to know.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It does to me. She had it rough growing up.”

“Everyone had it rough growing up,” Floyd said.

“Yeah? After Rid turned Dark, her own mother wouldn’t even take her in.”

Floyd nodded as if she understood, but her expression said otherwise. “You don’t have to tell me about having a crappy childhood. My dad is the head of a Dark Caster bike club in the Underground, remember?”

“I can’t even get my head around that,” Link said. “My mom wouldn’t let me take off my trainin’ wheels until I was ten, and my dad spent most of his free time at Civil War reenactments—mainly to avoid her.” He shrugged. “I can’t blame him. All that prayin’ and fussin’ gets on your nerves pretty fast, and if naggin’ was an Olympic sport, my mom woulda won the gold medal for sure. Drape a flag over her housecoat and skip that woman straight to the victory lap now.”

A waitress walked up to the table with an unappetizing plate of mismatched food on it, at least as far as Link was concerned. “One traditional ploughman’s,” she said. “Cheers.”

Floyd popped a piece of cheese in her mouth. “It’s actually good. Best traditional ploughman’s I ever had.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. “But where’s the plow?”

She stared at him. He shrugged. “Mortal food all tastes the same to me.”

Floyd nodded and turned her attention to her food. It seemed like talking about her dad bothered her, so Link left it alone and went back to writing crappy songs on napkins.

By the time Link finished writing his fourth song and Floyd had moved on to mushy peas and french fries called chips—which made no sense to him—he was starting to worry that John wasn’t going to show. He was about to bring it up to Floyd when the front door of the pub opened and he caught a glimpse of the familiar blond braids.

Liv, John’s girlfriend and Link’s friend before that, looked exactly the way he remembered her: blond and tall.

TDB. Third Degree Burns hot.

That was what Link had said the first time he saw her. It seemed weird now that he only thought of Liv as his friend and John’s girl.

Even if she was John’s hot girlfriend.

Liv was wearing the periodic table of elements T-shirt she’d had on when he met her. It only took her a moment to zero in on Link, and he could tell from the look on her face that she wasn’t happy. She headed toward him, arms crossed and scowling, with John behind her.

Sorry, John mouthed.

“Wesley Lincoln.”

The only person who ever called him that was his mom, and it was

never a good sign. Liv followed with a tight hug that was equal parts intimidating and affectionate. Link backed out of it as quickly as he could.

He smelled danger.

Liv pulled out the chair across from Link and sat down, glancing at Floyd. “Olivia Durand. I apologize in advance for my foul mood. I’d like to think I’m normally rather personable.” She turned to Link. “But I understand you want to take John with you to go after Silas Ravenwood.”

“Aw, Liv,” Link began. “It’s just—”

She held up a hand. “Hence the mood.”

John sat down next to her and put his hand on the back of her chair.

She pushed it off and glared at him, then turned her attention back to Link. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but Abraham Ravenwood almost killed both of you—all of us, really.”

“Well, you’re not so wrong—”

“And now you want to go after his great-great-grandson?” Liv asked. “What part of this seems like a sensible idea to you?”

Link tried again. “Not exactly sensible—”

“I told you, Ridley’s in trouble,” John said.

“I want to hear it from Link,” she said without taking her eyes off Link. “What kind of trouble are we talking about, precisely?” She held up her ring. “And why did this only go off on your behalf, rather than Ridley’s?”

Link sighed. There was no point trying to pull punches on Liv. She was too smart for her own good.

And mine.

He didn’t really know where to begin, so he just plunged right in. “Silas Ravenwood knows that me and John killed his granddad, Abraham, and he wants us dead: me, John—and Lena and Rid for helping us. Maybe you and Ethan, too. I’m not sure. But he’s the head of the Syndicate—it’s like the Mob of the Underground.”

“That’s an understatement,” Floyd added.

“Technically, it’s a statement.” Liv silenced her with one look. “And I’ve heard about the Syndicate from the Keepers training me.”

“It’s bad, Liv.” Link let himself sound as miserable as he felt. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. He’s got a thing for Sirens. And Rid’s missin’. I don’t know what he’s gonna do to her if we don’t find her.”