Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73252 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73252 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
It’s not just a regular dirt hole in the ground. I’ve dug myself a deep sand pit, and the tide is coming in. I need to hurry and find a way to climb out before I get sucked into the ground and drown.
Most of the tension leaves by the time we’ve finished lunch. We leave together and the wolves go one way and I go the other. I only make it halfway down the block before three guys on motorcycles swarm me, jumping the curb and almost hitting me.
Oh shit. It’s the Reapers.
“Florence Malus,” one says, getting off his bike. He pulls a gun from the back of his pants. “Blood demands blood.”
He points the gun at me and pulls the trigger.
Chapter
Seventeen
Iclose my eyes and the bullet hits a wall of energy I didn’t even know I put up. It clatters to the sidewalk with a small metallic clang, and screams ring out, echoing around us on the busy street.
“I told you there’s something wrong with her,” one of the other Reapers says, his voice nearly drowned out by the rumble of a motorcycle engine. “Fucking freak!”
I recognize the man holding the gun. He’s the one who shot at me before. The same one Xavier stabbed a fork through the hand of when he disrespected me at dinner.
“Chill out,” I tell him, holding up my hands.
The bullet he already fired is lying on the ground in front of me, and my heart is lodged somewhere in my throat. “Think about what you’re doing.”
“I’m doing what Xavier fucking Malus clearly can’t,” he says, his hand trembling slightly as he keeps the gun trained on me. “Nothing good happens when you bring a fucking witch into the mix.”
“The witch excuse is getting really fucking old.” I zero in on the gun. His finger is still on the trigger, which means I have to be careful. I could telekinetically rip it from his hand, but if I pull it forward, there’s a very real chance his finger catches and the gun goes off.
Backward?
Up?
Down?
Toward the ground?
I mentally calculate every angle in the span of a few seconds. There are too many people around. Too many buildings. Too many ways this could go wrong.
“Calling women witches is usually just a lazy way of saying you’re scared of us,” I taunt, trying to buy myself a little more time. The other two Reapers stand beside him, both furious and visibly shaken. I get it. They’re angry. And honestly, they have every right to be. Sixteen of their friends were brutally murdered in a ritual that brought a demon to Earth. They know I’m a witch. That fact was probably waved in their faces by Xavier more than once. He introduced me like I was some shiny new weapon he’d acquired. A hired gun with magic.
To people who don’t know the difference, witchcraft and demonic rituals probably look close enough. I don’t exactly expect a motorcycle gang from North Carolina to understand the nuances. But they know the line they’re crossing by coming after Xavier’s wife. They know their friend basically signed his own death warrant the second he pulled the trigger.
More importantly, they know there’s no going back now. Even if I died in the next few minutes, they’d still have to run. Their best chance would be getting as far away from Charlotte as possible and hoping they could disappear somewhere even Xavier couldn’t find them.
“What happened to your friends was really messed up,” I say. I keep watching the gun, trying to see if I can spot the safety. Could I flip it on telekinetically? Is my control precise enough for that? “But it had nothing to do with witches.”
“Bullshit.” I can feel the pain behind his anger. He didn’t just lose a friend. He lost his younger brother. And pain is so much easier to carry when you can turn it into rage. When you have a mission. A villain. Someone you can blame. Anger gives grief somewhere to go. It makes you believe that if you can just punish the person responsible, if you can make them suffer the way you suffered, then maybe your own pain will ease.
But it doesn’t.
Even if I were the one who performed that ritual, killing me wouldn’t bring his brother back. I know that from experience.
“I saw the bodies,” he says. “I saw that demonic shit drawn in their blood.”
“Exactly.” I force myself to take a steadying breath. “Demonic. Not witchcraft. We’re fighting the same enemy here.”
But I can already tell there’s no reasoning with him, so I act. I throw out my hand and shove his wrist backward with telekinesis. His own hand smacks him in the face. At the same time, I yank downward on the gun. It slips free and clatters to the pavement. I flick my wrist again, sending it skidding across the street until it drops into a gutter. Sirens sound in the distance, only a block or two away.