The Hunger (The Lycans 3)

I chuckled softly, knowing I had to get going if I planned on making it through security and to my gate on time. But I hated leaving.

The security line was slowly getting busier, and yet I was still waiting until the last possible minute to leave my friend, sister… family.

“Don’t worry about me, because I know you are. I’ll be here when you get back, and I want to hear all about your adventures. I also want to hear how you found your family and they are Scottish royalty.”

I grinned so big my cheeks hurt, and I shook my head slowly. “I think royalty is the farthest thing from my lineage.” We both sobered for a minute; then I gave her what felt like a watery smile.

“I expect at least a text, video call, or phone call once a day. Please.” That last word was laced with this kind of panic that Evelyn tried to hide.

But I didn’t address that and just nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll be five hours ahead of you, so if you do call me or text me and I don’t get back to you right away, just remember I may be sleeping off the scotch I had.”

She rolled her eyes again. “I don’t think you’ve ever had anything more than one of those wine coolers they sell off the bottom shelf at gas stations.”

This was true, and I was happy she was making light of the situation. If there was one thing I could guarantee from Evelyn, it was that she didn’t take things too seriously and always made sure I didn’t either.

“Don’t go getting married or anything while I’m gone.”

Evelyn snorted and shook her head. “Girl, I have to find a guy first, and I’m pretty sure I’m the natural deterrent for the opposite sex.”

Yeah, she and I were the same in that regard, it seemed.

I gave her one more big hug, said about five more goodbyes, and then I was making my way through security. After I was out and on the “other side,” I found my gate easily enough but didn’t have much time to sit and wait, not with how long I’d stayed with Evelyn.

Once I was boarded, my suitcase—which had been deemed a weekender—was stowed above. I settled in the window seat, set my backpack on my lap, and stared at the runway.

The scent of recycled air tinged with jet fuel was a sour singe to my nose, but I focused on the men finishing up loading the baggage into the belly of the plane. I watched them for a good five minutes, the commotion around me of people finding their seats, stowing their luggage, the whining and crying of children settling in for a very long flight, and of the flight attendants walking up and down the aisle to assist people, all helped to keep my focus on the very real nervousness I felt.

I’d never left the city, let alone the state, so going across the ocean to a foreign country would no doubt be a culture shock. This was an entire new venture for me, and I was terrified. Of course I never voiced that, had never told Evelyn or anyone else for that matter.

But as I sat on this plane and stared out the window, that fear started to creep up and take control, and there was little distraction that could keep it at bay, I was finding out.

I closed my eyes and breathed out slowly, sensing the people taking the two seats beside me, but I didn’t bother looking at them. When I opened my eyes again, I stared at the headrest in front of me. I probably looked weird as hell just staring straight ahead. I didn’t even know if I blinked as I tried to focus on every little sound around me, every minute detail of that seat, the fibers, the little placard that was stuck to the tray table.

When I felt a semblance of calm once more, I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the rolled-up stack of papers. I unrolled it and started flipping through them.

Birth certificate. A map of the town, village, whatever the small community was called in Scotland where my mother and grandparents had come from. The B and B and car rental information for when I landed. I had printouts of information I’d found about my mother after she’d come to America and their life before that. I looked at the last piece of paper that showed the immigration information for my grandparents. They’d come from Scotland when my mother had been about my age. And eight months later she’d given birth.

To me.

And that’s where any and all information I’d been able to find out about my family—maternal, that was, because I had zero information on my father—had stopped.

I exhaled and rested my head back on the seat, my entire family history—or lack thereof—contained in a thin, lightweight stack of paperwork on my lap. And as I stared back out that tiny window, watching as the workers walked away, as they prepared for this plane to get airborne, I smoothed my hands over the most precious cargo I had with me.