Free The Sovereign Era (Book 2): Pilgrimage by Matthew Wayne Selznick

the father. He was the husband. His authority had to be final, and besides, if she’d had her way, Byron would never have been challenged, never have been pushed to accomplish everything he’d done.
    Her unspoken, suspected betrayal only served to strengthen Marc’s resolve. He would go to Missoula, and he would come back with his son if he had to drag Byron out by his ear and punch William Donner in the throat on the way out.
    Yeah.
    Marc straightened in his seat and watched people file onto the airliner. A few people back was the second strangest-looking guy Marc had ever laid eyes on. He was probably six and a half feet tall, but gawky and skinny as all hell. He had tiny little ears, like they’d stopped growing when he was a kid or something, underneath a sloppy, spiky shock of feathery black hair.
    The guy’s nose was enormous, narrow and hooked at the end like a beak. His lips were thin and pale. His eyes were black and wide, and he kept them pointed at the ground as much as possible.
    The first-most strangest-looking guy Marc had ever seen was Nathan Charters.
    Marc’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
    Right.
    The Sovereign freak sat down next to him.
    Marc didn’t bother to hide his revulsion. He recoiled and shoved himself as close as he could to the inner wall of the cabin. He stared out the little window.
    Mother fuck . It was like the whole world was trying to get his goat. Put a fucking Sovereign on the same plane. Put him in the seat next to Marc.
    It couldn’t get any worse.
    “Oh my god.” The guy’s voice was a grating, piping screech. “You’re Marc Teslowski.”
    All right, then. It could get worse.
    Marc kept his eyes on the tarmac below and said nothing.
    “You are. You’re Marc Teslowski.”
    This could go on for hours. Marc had to put an end to it.
    “I’m not interested in talking to you,” he growled.
    The gawky freak squawked a laugh. “Well, we’re traveling companions, Marc Teslowski.” Marc felt him shifting in the next seat. “Might as well be companionable, right?”
    Marc kept his tongue. How many hours was this flight?
    “My name’s Eddie. Eddie Schwippe.” Some of his vowels came out choked, like his tongue was hitting the roof of his mouth at the wrong time as he talked. Maybe his fucking tongue was deformed thanks to whatever kind of freak he was.
    “And you are the infamous father who wants the Sovereigns to give back one of their own.” His chirping wasn’t so strange Marc couldn’t hear the subtle teasing in his tone. “Well. One of our own, I guess I should say.”
    The plane started to move into position on the runway. Marc watched the pavement flow past, the swift flash of lines and letters coming and going in the small square of the world he could see.
    Eddie Schwippe clucked. “I bet you’re not too happy right now, eh, Marc? Mister Teslowski? Right?”
    Marc gave up and turned to face him. Eddie blinked and smiled. His eyes, Marc realized, were entirely black, all pupil. It was disturbing.
    “I told you. I’m not interested in talking. All right?”
    Schwippe shrugged, and knobby shoulders rolled under his baggy dress shirt. “Got it! ‘Course, that doesn’t mean I won’t be talking to you. It’s too long a flight to just sit here and space out, right? Besides, I forgot my book.”
    Schwippe held out his right hand. The fingers were long, the knuckles like walnuts. His fingernails were so black and glossy you’d think they were painted, but Marc guessed they probably weren’t.
    “So as I was saying,” Schwippe said, just slightly more seriously, “my name’s Eddie. Pleased to meet you.”
    Marc turned away from him and locked his focus on the back of the seat directly ahead. He still couldn’t help peripherally seeing Schwippe pull his hand back, slowly.
    “Really?” Schwippe clicked his tongue. “And to think I went to the trouble of filing my nails. They weren’t always like that, you know. I mean, I was always a