Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154735 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
He’d showed up at her little apartment, in that backyard where the picnic table was, and watched her through a sliding glass door.
Boo had known instantly he was there, and had started pacing in front of the exit—
Meooooow.
“I’m going to go check on him,” Wrath said as he once again turned his useless eyes in the direction of the noise. “I’ll be right back, leelan.”
“We’ll be here,” Beth countered happily. “Taking care of business with these blocks.”
As he strode off, George followed, the golden padding along, ready for any new adventure.
“Helluva mission,” he bitched. “Feline patrol.”
It was as he punched through the doors and left the staff part of the house that awareness coalesced in his mind.
An odd sense of urgency made him walk faster. “Boo?”
But the sudden surge of paranoia wasn’t about the cat. None of this was about… the cat.
The next meow was out by his study. And then there was one halfway down the staircase.
As Wrath descended, a sense of unreality came to him, and when he got to the bottom, he pivoted to the left without the sound guiding him.
Progressing through the dining room, he was aware of feeling like he was being swept by a tide, carried through the spaces, though technically his feet were walking. At the flap door in the back corner, he pushed through, the scent of silver polish thick in his nose—
“—insisted on going,” a female doggen was saying.
“That shouldnae be, though. Why’d you tell him ought?”
“I did not. He o’erheard me saying that I had left my young’s blanket therein, and that the wee male was distraught and wouldnae sleep. What was I ’ta do—”
“Sire!”
There was a gasp, and then a silence, and he pictured two uniformed maids bowing at their waists.
“Where did he go,” Wrath said. “Where did Fritz… go.”
Even though he knew.
Jesus fucking Christ, the dream that had woken him up that day in a cold sweat was coming true.
* * *
Far from earth’s toil and trouble, in the alternate plane she had created for the Book’s safety and her own sequester, Rahvyn sat upon grass that was no longer colored. In fact, all was shades of gray about her. Prior, she had lackadaisically amused herself with changing chromatics. Now her suffering was such that she had no interest in such wasteful pursuits.
As the Book flapped its pages again, she thought… this was where it had all started, had it not.
“I’m not talking about him.” She shot a glare over. “Why didn’t you tell me about the spell? About my role in all this? You let me walk into heartbreak.”
The Book made some sort of response, but she did not track it. Why the hell did she care—
Another flapping. And more.
She would have left the thing, but she had no idea where to go. Certainly not down to earth, ever again—
Flappingflappingflappingflapping—
Aware that the ancient tome was giving itself a heart attack apologizing, she glanced over. But it was not an apology.
The second her eyes shifted in its direction, the open folio stopped its agitation and an image began to appear, summoned once again by symbols swirling—and of course, that reminded her of what Lassiter had gotten carved in his back.
Rahvyn shook her head and looked away. “I am done with all that. I am sorry.”
FLAPPINGFLAPPINGFLAPPING—
She twisted back around and ignored that image of Wrath and the black tide of symbols swamping his portrait. “No, I am taking care of myself from the now on! I am sorry if there is a bad destiny awaiting the King—or whate’er you are attempting to tell me! But it is not my problem!”
The Book jumped up and down on the ground, its covers popping it up off the dingy gray grass over and over and over—while that portrait, so lifelike, so real, got inundated with the black tide again and again.
Indeed, the swamping was on repeat: The moment Wrath’s face was eaten by the tide, it repaired, just to be consumed again.
Through her own pain, she had a memory that caused even more agony: She was standing on wobbly legs, witnessing her name getting carved, symbol by symbol, across Lassiter’s upper back. He had not wavered for even a moment as what surely had hurt terribly continued. He had just stared at her with what had appeared at the time to be love, his silver blood running down off his torso, those gold chains that had been loaned by members of the household hanging loose and touching the mosaic depiction of an apple tree in full bloom.
Beside her on the left… had been Beth.
Holding her up, keeping her steady.
The Queen had been so helpful, so necessary, in that moment, and yet she had been apart from it because she had not been staring at Lassiter and what was being done unto him.
The female had been looking at her hellren, the King, who was standing so proud, so true… staring back at her even though he was sightless.