Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
It feels like hours before someone returns.
I hear the footsteps long before I see the light approach. I grab the piss bucket, deciding at the last moment to fling the contents and use the pitcher I keep nearby to attack the second guard. The torch hovers just outside, light spilling in underneath the door, and a key jangles. The door opens and I ready the piss bucket—
I hear a woman’s voice. “My god, are all the locks really necessary? She’s his Anchor, not a damn cat burglar.”
That makes me pause.
The door opens and the woman steps inside, her expression a little huffy. I stand there, clutching the bucket, my mouth open. She’s about my age, her hair pulled into two knots atop her head like mouse ears, with a filmy scarf draped over them. Her neck is covered with a heavy encrusted crystalline necklace, and her dress is a pale and delicate sheath with princess-like long sleeves. She eyes me holding the bucket, and her gaze darts to mine. “If I ask nicely, could you not toss that on me? This dress is new and I really like it.”
I lower the bucket, watching as she steps aside and more guards file in. They’re carrying things, and as I watch, one sets up a wooden tripod and another guard rolls in a cart. A third brings a carved stool and another sets a lantern to hang from a steel tripod. My mouth falls open as a large, stretched canvas is brought in and settled on the wooden tripod—which I’m now figuring out is an easel.
What the holy fucking fuck is going on?
The men file out of my cell and the woman flashes a bright smile at me. “Okay if we hang out a bit? I’m Margo, by the way.”
“Elsie,” I answer automatically. “Do…I know you?”
“Oh gosh no.” She chuckles and settles herself on the wooden stool, picking up a paintbrush from the cart and eyeing the easel in front of her. “You and I are perfect strangers, but I thought we’d have a chitchat, Anchor to Anchor. Are you from Chicago too?”
My jaw falls open further. “How did you…”
Chapter
Twenty
The stranger flicks her dry paintbrush at me. “Yup. Chicago. Thought so. For some reason everyone they pluck is from Chicago. It’s like it’s easy hunting grounds there, or maybe their spiderwebs are just clearer there. Who the fuck knows, am I right?” She dabs her brush into a blob of paint atop the cart and makes a large swipe across the canvas. “Hmm. The lighting in here sucks balls. I guess that’s on me.”
I don’t know whether to laugh at her consternation or scream in frustration. I decide to aim for answers instead. “You’re the one that kidnapped me? Where’s Kalos? How did you know I’m from Chicago? What’s going on?”
“Because I’m from Chicago, too. And Faith was. And Carly. I’m not sure about Max.” She swipes another stroke across her painting and tilts her head, regarding her work. “Are we feeling this brown?”
“Who are Max and Carly?”
Margo glances over at me again. “The other Anchors. I guess you haven’t met anyone?” When I shake my head, she shrugs and turns back to her painting. “I guess it makes it easier for us in the long run if you guys are flying solo. I’m Seth’s Anchor, FYI.”
I’ve heard a few other names of gods since I got here—Gental, obviously. Rhagos, Kalos’s estranged brother. Belara. The name Seth doesn’t ring a bell. “I don’t know who that is.”
“No, you probably wouldn’t. He’s an immigrant, so to speak. He snuck over from our world. I keep trying to get a straight answer out of him but near as I can tell, he’s either the Egyptian god Set, or the Norse god Loki, or some amalgamation of the two. I can’t get a mythology book and cross check, so I’m trying to pick up on context clues from our conversations. But Seth is kind of a butthole so he’s tricky to read.” She continues painting, coloring in her big brown blob.
I cross my arms over my chest, and remember I was holding the piss bucket, and wipe my hands on my dress. I’m freezing, so I go over to my shitty little bed (which looks worse with a bit of light on it) and pull the blanket around my shoulders. “What does this have to do with Kalos? Or with me?”
Margo glances over at me. “Well, Seth stole you to convince Kalos to come with us. He’s wooing him right now, trying to get him to form an alliance.”
“An alliance,” I repeat, uncomprehending. “For what?”
“Seth needs to weasel into this pantheon, so he’s picking at the weak spots.” She paints another brown, circular blob over the first one, and dabs her brush again. “He’s looking for allies, and we’ve heard a lot of scuttlebutt about an Aspect of Disease that was flying solo, so we headed in your direction. I’m not saying he’s a great guy, but he’s probably good to have on your side instead of an enemy. And I wouldn’t mind some buddies.”