Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
“I thought it would be more fun.”
“Oh forget both of you.” I got in front of them and walked away. “We’ll skip the chair, bypass a lot of the other highlights, and head straight to Poet’s Corner.”
“Sounds boring.” Troy matched my pace. “What’s in Poet’s Corner?”
“Famous writers are buried there—Jane Austen to Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare to William Wordsworth.”
Vivian mumbled, “I’d rather see the Coronation Chair.”
I picked up my pace.
How the hell are they not impressed with this church?
As soon as we’d stepped in front of the palace, my mood had lifted. The Abbey towers shot into the air and pointed to the sky. Immaculate carvings peered out of long, stone walls. Energy prickled against my skin, as if God came here and left parts of himself with each visit.
I wasn’t a spiritual person, had never been to church besides the few times Vivian’s mother took Troy and me. However, these days called for a bigger presence in my life. I needed something to grab onto and help me stay solid and whole. There was something so beautiful about having a great being watching over me every day, whether I slept or not, whether I understood him or not.
I made the Abbey our first stop because I needed strength. Whatever I hoped to get, whether an answer from God, a powerful spirit, or just plain saintly luck, I believed I would get it here, within the walls of the greatest creations carved, built, and painted for the grace of God.
I’m just not sure how to appropriately pray on help to kill somebody. What do you say? Dear Lord, please give me the strength to take their life.
The British Royals definitely knew how to pray in luxury. A white vaulted ceiling hovered above us. The place commanded a holy elegance, if that was even a term one would use amongst so many godly statues and art.
The Abbey held a world craft interior—medieval craftsmanship and gothic architecture, captivating stonework and vaulted ceilings that fanned out in a complicated pattern and soared high in the air, much higher than any church I’d ever seen on TV. Gold ribbing and ivory columnar piers held the walls. Stained art served as the windows and took my breath away.
Troy shoved me out of my enjoyment. “We need some knives.”
Vivian turned her phone back on and faced the ceiling. The phone clicked as she took several pictures. “What about a gun?”
“Turn off the phone.” Troy shook his head. “Phones can be monitored, when they’re not active. In fact, you should take the battery off, too.”
“I’m not doing all of that,” Vivian said.
“Why take the battery out?” I asked.
“There’s malware out there that makes the phone appear to turn off upon request. The screen goes blank and all that, but it’s still powered up and conversations are still monitored.”
“Fuck.” I took my phone out and pulled out the battery. “Spies are such intrusive little assholes. Next they’ll be putting microphones into food, and that’s the moment when I’m going off.”
Ignoring Troy’s paranoia, Vivian continued to take a few more images. “Why not a gun?”
Troy shifted his weight to his other foot. “We can’t shoot him. Too bloody and messy. Plus, his guards will hear the shots and come for us. He might’ve told them to kill us, if we murdered him. Shooting is out.”
“Poison?” Viv snapped a picture.
Troy’s voice rose a little louder than before. “Turn off the phone.”
Sighing, she shut it off. “What about poison?”
“I doubt he would trust any food we’d give him, and how are we going to get the poison on his plate without him seeing it?”
“I could befriend Lou,” I offered. “Ask her to teach me some dishes and volunteer to cook dinner.”
“I’m sorry, Jazz. But you cooking dinner and putting poison on food at a table I’ll be sitting at, scares me more than shooting Benny.”
“Then what do you suggest, Old Grand Master?” I bowed to him. “You keep knocking down our ideas. Do you have a plan?”
Troy grinned. “We stab him. All together at the same time.”
“Hell no,” I said.
“Are you kidding me?” Vivian added. “Do Jasmine and I even seem like two people that can hold it enough together to stab our own father in the chest?”
“Not my father, yours.” Troy shrugged.
“We don’t know whose father he is. Either way, he’s been a dad to us all. A psychotic and overprotective father, but definitely something.” I looked at Troy. “Could you really do it?”
With no pause or thought to the question, he said, “Yes.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Me either.” Viv lifted the camera back to her face to snap another picture, realized it was off, and stuffed it back into her pocket.
“Okay.” I pointed to the entrance of Poet’s Corner. “This should be fun.”
“Why?” Troy asked.
“Because famous dead people are buried, here.”
“Yippee.” Troy punched the air. “Sounds like good times indeed.”