Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83408 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“If I didn’t know any better, I would think you actually want to marry this woman,” she accuses.
I glance at her so there can be no misunderstandings between us. “What I want is to destroy her. Make no mistake about it. It will be done.”
“Then tell me how?” she begs, her voice betraying a raw grief she rarely displays. “Tell me how you will kill her.”
I have only one answer for her.
“Slowly.”
3
Ivy
At a little after two in the morning, we turn onto the cul-de-sac where our home sits. Well, home is a stretch. It’s the house I grew up in. I know Hazel felt the same way, and I suspect Evangeline does too.
At least I’ll get to see her. My little sister is just thirteen years old. I’d been thirteen when things changed for me. That was the year The Society stepped into our lives in a way they hadn’t before.
The Moreno family is pretty low in the hierarchy as far as desirability in what I’ve always considered as being about a step away from a cult. There’s almost a sort of caste system, one upon which my father’s side of the family didn’t rank well.
My mother is a different story.
My father had a wife before her. He never mentioned her when we were growing up. I don’t even know her name. In fact, I’ve only ever seen a photo of her once. That was when I was late one morning on the way to school and needed to grab lunch money, and Dad’s wallet was the only one around.
I missed the bus that day because when the small thumbnail-sized photo had slipped out along with the dollar bills, I’d been surprised. My father had a picture of a stranger in his wallet. He didn’t even carry photos of his kids.
She was beautiful, I remember, in a very different way than my mother. She had the same dark eyes my brother does, except that hers shone bright. Hers held a warm smile inside them. His? His are dead. Have been for as long as I can remember.
I’d quickly shoved the photo back into the flap of the wallet when I’d heard my mother’s high heels rushing toward the kitchen as she yelled at me that I’d missed the bus. She’d made me walk the six miles to school in the pouring rain.
I hate my mother.
As we pull onto the long driveway of our house, the single light that’s on in Evangeline’s room goes out.
Abel mutters something about her not listening under his breath but drops it.
I look up at the house. It’s the first time I’ve seen it in half a year. It’s a sprawling, once beautiful home in a cul-de-sac on a quiet street just outside of the French Quarter. And as I stare up at it, all those feelings I had growing up come churning back, leaving my stomach in knots and my hands growing clammy.
“Home sweet home,” Abel says as he kills the engine of the Rolls Royce.
“Why didn’t you have Joseph drive you?” I ask when he opens his door. I find it curious he drove himself since my brother is all about appearances and climbing that social ladder of a society that doesn’t want him.
He has one leg out the door but stops and turns to me. “I’ll hire my own driver. I don’t need Dad’s leftovers.”
“He’s not a leftover. He’s a human being. What is he, seventy years old? Did you fire him?”
“Joseph isn’t your problem, Ivy. Let’s go. I’m tired, and we have a big day ahead of us.”
He climbs out, and I follow, reaching into the back seat to grab my duffel and messenger bags. I brought some schoolbooks, as much as I could fit into the bags, as well as a few changes of clothes. Just a few. I guess some part of me is holding onto the dream that it wouldn’t be as bad as Abel made it out to be with my dad, and I might even return to school.
But then his words play back. You’ve been chosen. And I know I’m not going back to school.
I follow my half brother to the front door and wait for him to unlock and open it, then step inside even as my legs grow leaden. It’s like they know once I enter, it will be that much harder to get out.
The smell of the place washes over me, overwhelming my senses. My mother’s candles. Vanilla and cinnamon. I know how much she pays for those candles. It’s a ridiculous price for wax that will melt and disappear. It’s not a bad smell, but it carries memories, and I set my hand on the table beside the door to steady myself as I take it in.
Was the dizzying nausea always this bad? Or is it worse now that I’ve been gone, free for more than half a year?