Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Oliver hesitates behind him, brows low. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, not at all certain if it’s the truth or a lie, but I must sound convincing, because with another muttered vow to call me, Oliver leaves.
I walk to the door, shut it firmly, and turn the locks, resting my back against the wooden surface. The yellow eyes mean nothing. I’m probably seeing things. Or…if I’m not, maybe yellow-eyed creatures walk amongst us all the time, and Jeremy has awakened my ability to see them. That sounds as crazy as I feel. There are no yellow-eyed creatures. I hit my head. That’s the logical explanation.
And logic wins every time, in court and in real life, in my life.
The Sacred Book of Nephilim
You see, the problem with humans will always be humans. They’re burdened with emotions that serve no purpose but to weaken and stain their body, mind, and soul.
The weakness of the Nephilim will always be all things human.
Chapter eight
Guilt is a prickly, violent beast that I share a more intimate relationship with than anyone else in my life.
The guilt is real.
I shouldn’t have allowed Oliver to leave with the demon-eyed man. If he dies, it’s all my fault. Anxiety zips through my body, and I ping-pong about the cabin, dialing Oliver not once, but two times, only to be shot straight to his voicemail. When he finally calls me, my relief morphs into anger, and I do that thing parents do when they finally hear from their delinquent children. “Where have you been?”
“On a snowy highway, with no service. It was treacherous.”
A breath rasps from my lips. The drive is over, and I dismiss any danger it represented for a more immediate concern. “Is the detective still with you?”
“Yes, why?”
“I don’t like him. Be careful with him.”
“You okay, Ember?”
“Yes. Stop asking me that. It’s you that needs to be okay.”
He laughs and does that flirty thing he does, and I sink into its familiarity like a warm, cozy blanket. We continue our banter, chatting until his plane is ready for takeoff and then again when he arrives home, sans Ryker.
That night, I lay in bed, and all I could see was the yellow of Ryker’s eyes and the pink keychain with JB engraved in the center.
I wake at six a.m. and begin whipping up a batch of cookies.
I found baking via a high school cooking class, and now it’s my nervous habit, even if I skip eating my creation and just feed someone else. I’m also quite skilled at ordering takeout, better than most, I’d venture to say.
Hours later, with hot cocoa and a delicious chocolate chip cookie on a plate in front of me, I sit at the dining room table, reading through some of the trial notes I’d been given on my client who’d dealt with a trauma event. Her entire family died in a car accident, and she’d blamed herself even though someone else had run a red light. They’d left ten minutes later than normal for the work and school routine because she’d slept in. We sued the insurance company of the driver for a laundry list of items, including pain and suffering. Reading through the testimony the psychologist gave, according to her, our brains get caught in a loop of self-blame and guilt. I’m living that, I think, beating myself up for not seeing Jeremy as the monster he is in time to put him away for life. I want to pace all over again, and I revert to my method of problem-solving.
I need to do something, take action.
I decide to actually write a book. Okay, attempt to write a book. I’m determined to use my words to expose Jeremy as a killer who should never have walked free, no matter how the outcome paints me. No matter what it does to my career. But if I’m smart, and if I do this right, I’ll give away nothing but offer up just enough to ensure people rethink Jeremy’s innocence. Jeremy will never hide the monster he is behind his mousy, nervous persona ever again when I’m done with him. And if he can’t hide, maybe he can’t kill again.
Instead of filling the page with my brilliant plan, I find myself googling “yellow eyes,” looking for any logical answers to both the yellow eyes I keep seeing and an explanation for pretty much everything that has happened and is happening to me.
“Vampire, werewolf, witch, demon,” I murmur, all of which are options that could apply to me or to those with the yellow eyes. “Of course,” I mumble and take a bite of my cookie, my cellphone buzzing against the marble-top table. Determined not to ignore Oliver, still worried about his contact with Ryker, I abandon my cookie on the plate and pick it up, frowning at the unknown number. It’s probably a reporter, but Hulk does sometimes call me from unknown numbers, and I can’t risk missing vital information he might dig up.