The Alpha Emperor’s Resurrection

3: Robin

"Nordstedt," my sister repeated her surname for the third time as the man at the airport check-in desk remained fixated on her chest. He had her passport in his hand - he could have looked at her name in that - but he was entranced by her, and he wasn't thinking clearly.

She wasn't in the mood.

Neither was I.

"How much to get on that flight?" I asked, ignoring the way Saga glared at me.

“This one?" the man looked at his screen for a few seconds, then pushed my sister's passport back across the desk to her. "I'm afraid this one is fully booked."

"That isn't what you were asked," Saga said as she slowly pushed the passport back toward the man.

He finally looked into her startling silver eyes, and swallowed nervously. He didn't want to tell her she wasn't going to get her own way. Nobody ever did.

"I...I'm..." he floundered.

She was bored, and past the point of being willing to overlook him drooling over her now it wasn't going to benefit her.

"We need to get to Stockholm, today. We don't care how much it costs," she reached into the iridescent silver leather handbag at her hip and pulled out a wad of cash, setting it down firmly and sliding it closer to the man with the neon pink talons she called her nails on full display. "I'm willing to forgive whatever administrative error you're blaming this on if you make that happen. Do you understand?"

The man didn't look at the cash. He was too busy staring at her breasts again, and she was beginning to lose her temper, which was not going to end well for any of us.

"Saga..."

She raised one of her hands to silence me, but I rested my hand on her shoulder.

She needed someone to remind her not to draw unnecessary attention to herself, sometimes. That was really the only reason I had left with her.

People were watching her, and her reaction to the man at the check-in desk. There was already tension in the air.

"Fine," she huffed, withdrawing her money from the counter and returning it to her bag.

"I think I can get you —" the man started. He recognized power when he saw it, and my sister had hinted at a reward for helping us.

She laughed coolly, interrupting him.

"I don't waste my time on 'I think’. Either you can, or you can't."

He was wide-eyed and completely unsure of how to respond, but she wasn't interested, and she had already turned away.

"Come on," she nodded at another check-in desk.

"You know this was the only flight to Sweden today, right? Making a fuss at that desk isn't going to change that."

"Then we'll make a fuss at every desk until one of them sorts us out," Saga shrugged, sweeping her snowy white hair over her shoulder.

I sighed, but I followed her. I was already resigned to the fact that she was going to get her own way. She always did.

"Saga, I think it would be better to figure out what went wrong when you booked the tickets last night and rebook for tomorrow. Arguing with people here isn't going to achieve anything."

"You're wrong," she responded, confidently. "The woman at desk three will be more than willing to help if you do what she's been thinking about since she spotted you."

I sighed, and shook my head.

"You can't be serious? There are no more flights today, she isn't going to commission a private jet for us, and even if she could..."

Saga groaned, and left me alone with our bags while she went to talk to the young woman herself. It didn't take long for her to wave me over, and I was worried that she might have volunteered me for something I was in no mood for; thankfully, she had more sense than that.

Her burgundy passport was on the counter already - a Swedish one, courtesy of her father. I dug into my pocket and pulled out my own Navy blue passport. A Canadian one, because Saga wasn't really my sister. As if it wasn't obvious enough from looking at us; we were both werewolves, but Saga was a White Wolf and her pure white hair and the fiery amber eyes that were concealed behind silvery blue contact lenses made that clear. My ancestors on my mother's side were originally from India: my jet black hair, deep brown eyes, and warm complexion were all inherited from her, and they made it impossible to pretend I was born into Saga's family, even though they considered me one of their own.

The young woman behind the check-in desk flicked my passport open and turned to the page with my picture and details; she was curious, because she recognized me.

ROBIN ATTILA EDDOWES

She read my name, then stared at the unflattering little photograph that accompanied it, before looking back up at me.

I had only just turned eighteen in the passport picture, and I looked decidedly fresh-faced without any tattoos or the lip piercing I was chewing on as I waited for her to return the passport.

"Attila?" she questioned with a sparkle in her eyes.

An attempt at flirtation that fell flat, because I was far from interested, and I was particularly defensive of my unusual middle name.

Saga's uncle named me Robin in honor of my father, because he died before I was born. He chose Attila as a middle name, because my father had been a fan of Attila Csihar; there was nothing particularly meaningful or sentimental about it, but it was a connection to my father that showed me what he was actually like as a person, and I didn't find it as funny as some people seemed to.

I gave the receptionist a polite smile as the boarding passes she was printing for us emerged painfully slowly from the machine beside her.

"Aren't you...?" she fiddled with the ends of her hair and blushed, abandoning her question.

"The guitarist?" Saga offered.

She had already confirmed that, and this was a transparent attempt at introducing me to the human woman, because that was what she had used as a bargaining chip when she arranged our new tickets.

"Yeah," I shrugged. I was too tired to feign enthusiasm. "I'm not in the band anymore."

"Oh..." she looked crestfallen, and I almost felt guilty as I lifted our heavy bags up onto the belt to check them in.

She leaned across to fix the labels to them, and I finally caught sight of our destination on the tag.

"Rome?" I hissed at Saga, as if she was going to acknowledge me. "You do understand basic geography, right? Italy is pretty f*****g far from Sweden, Saga."

She rolled her eyes dramatically and tapped her nails performatively on the counter.

"You do understand the concept of a connecting flight, don't you?"

I shook my head in disbelief as I watched our bags disappear around the corner on the moving conveyor belt, and I wondered for the thousandth time why my sister couldn't just do things in a normal way.