Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
It’s only when Prophet makes a turn right, toward a cabin at the very edge of the lake that I slow down. “Why are we going to her house?”
Prophet spreads his arms. “Because I don’t know what the Butchers are planning, and you’re the one who inflamed the situation, so you need to be at the reading. It’s our last resort.”
I swallow down a groan, because Prophet treats this stuff way too seriously for me to mock him after yesterday’s fuck-up. “You know the tarot cards mess with my head. The last time you made me do this, she said someone’s out to get me. So I was vigilant for days until that damn cat managed to sneak into the house, hide, and then scratch me in my sleep.”
I only accepted that rationalization so Prophet would stop asking if I discovered who was after me. I don’t believe all this woo-woo stuff, but it still creeps me out.
It doesn’t help that Brigid’s thatch-roofed cabin looks like a witch’s hut. She’s not Prophet’s real mother, but she took him in when he was a teen stray, and he treats her with reverence, so we all do as well. After all, it’s her land, and she graciously allows us to live here rent-free. What’s a prophecy or two in the grand scheme of things?
I hope she can’t really read my mind, because no one can know I have the hots for Clyde, nor that I might still meet him tonight. I’ve killed for Brigid, but she would not let such a betrayal slide regardless.
Prophet shakes his head and I feel like a cat being taken to the vet’s. “It has to be done, but I don’t think she has cards in mind tonight.”
We step onto the porch decorated with weird symbols made of thin branches and reeds, then go straight through the open door, where the smell of strong tea twists my lips. The interior is marginally less weird than the hut appears on the outside. Bunches of herbs hang from the ceiling, and log walls are hidden from view by cupboards full of jars, boxes, books, and the occasional artwork. Brigid doesn’t believe in electricity, so candles occupy many of the horizontal spaces. She does watch TV at times, but only in communal spaces. Thankfully for her daughter, Luna, the cabin does have access to running water.
Prophet senses my hesitation and puts his hand between my shoulder blades, forcing me to step deeper into the room, where Brigid is seated in a rocking chair, wrapped in a celestial-themed blanket. A tea set with just one cup is standing on the small table in front of her.
I groan. No. Not the tea. I hate that fucking tea.
Luna is a shy, blonde, toothpick of a girl. She does say hi when we enter but gets up and makes a beeline for her room. No surprise there, since she knows we’ll need privacy. But maybe she also just wants to avoid the tea.
“Hey Brigid,” I say, resigned to my fate. “Makes sense there’s only one cup, since Prophet is the prez and all that.” I try to reinforce the idea that there is no need to make one for me. It’s Prophet who believes this stuff anyway.
As Brigid leans forward to pour the tea, her black-gray curls cascade down her shoulders. There’s something eerie about her, a feminine sensuality I don’t resonate with, and which always leaves me with a sense of unease. She’s attractive, and looks younger than she supposedly is. But it’s the confidence with which she commands respect in everyone around her that’s so admirable. She makes a living from fortune-telling, casting spells for people, and producing potions, yet no one questions her position. Oh, and she’s also our resident tattoo artist. Quite a lot for one woman to handle.
Me? I’ve been unnerved by her since she first treated me to the goddamn tea, on the day after my arrival here. She served it to me burning hot, and since I hate tea, I chugged it all in one go. One of the worst fucking things ever.
She’s been serving it to me much colder since.
“Drink,” She says, pinning me with dark, kohl-lined eyes.
I don’t have a choice here, do I?
I sit down in one of the chairs and pick up the cup. The bitter, herby scent makes me wrinkle my nose, but I’m ready to take one for the team and swallow the disgusting liquid.
Prophet huffs in frustration. If he’s so eager, I would have happily shared my punishment. “Are you sure I shouldn’t drink too?”
“Leave us, son,” Brigid says. “I have a feeling this is about Road.”
Prophet pats my shoulder and reluctantly leaves. Brigid must be the only person who can tell him what to do. I hope this won’t take long. I’m still not certain what to do about Clyde, and if I am to be sure of my decision, I need time to myself, not... this.