Book 18: Cathy

Fallon

Zayn is still lying prone on the floor when three shadows drift over the dust-eaten, weathered floorboards. A very tall, curvaceous woman with the thickest, curliest black hair I’ve ever seen steps carefully into the room, her mane of glorious curls slipping over her shoulder while she peers skeptically down at Zayn.

He narrows his eyes to slits, but not into a glare. I think–actually, I know–he’s absolutely shitfaced right now.

To be completely, totally, horrifically honest… I am jealous he’s currently floating on another plane of existence. It must be nice.

“Cousin,” the woman says tightly, glancing at me before crouching and poking him in the cheek. “What have you done to yourself this time?”

“He’s drunk,” I croak and then clear my throat.