Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
North Dakota, huh, he thought as he drove forward and turned off the Tesla. Guess it’s as good a place as any—although talk about remote.
Then again, that was the point, wasn’t it.
Getting out, he went to the door into his kitchen and hit the button mounted by the jamb as he opened things up. Inside the condo, he tossed his keys on the counter and then stalled out. The fact that there was no one to call with his news—and he wouldn’t have had the energy to go through it all anyway—was kind of depressing. But the former was the consequence of his focus, and the latter something that could be cured with a trip to his refrigerator and a fucking nap.
On that note, he went over, cracked his icebox, and reached in for a Coke. Two cardboard boxes with half-eaten takeout were molting in a field of single-serving condiments, and instead of throwing them out, he just let that door shut itself.
Bet Frigidaire would have been surprised to know that their product could be used as a calorie crypt.
He cracked the top on the Coke and looked out to the front of the condo. There was a mail slot in the door, and the pile of unopened mail that fanned out on the square of entry tile was another mess caused by his neglect.
For all his IQ, he’d never been any good at the nuances of adulting, and yeah, it was true, he hid behind the noble pillars of his Very Important Work to blow off things like registering his car, doing his taxes, getting annual physicals. Thank God for online banking or his credit score would have been in the double digits.
As he wandered across to the envelopes and flyers—because he didn’t know what the hell else to do with himself—he frowned and got down on his haunches. Putting the soda aside, he picked up a large manila envelope that was on top of the scatter. When he turned it right side up, he read the handwritten inscription that included his name and address, and then noted, at the bottom, the red letters: HAND DELIVER ONLY.
“What the fuck?”
Letting himself fall back onto his ass, he went to open the flap, only to find it taped shut to within an inch of its inanimate life.
He got up and went into the kitchen with whatever it was, and he needed a full minute to find a sharp knife because he never cooked and always ate with the plastic stuff that came with his takeout. Digging the tip of the blade into the layers of packing tape, he reflected on how he had no more interest in cleaning dirty cutlery than he did in dealing with his Visa bill—
What came out of the envelope… stopped the whole world.
It was a legal document that, after he scanned it… twice… seemed to suggest…
… that one Catherine Phillips Phalen, being of very sound mind, had given to him all of the rights to the ownership of Vita-12b, its precursors, and any forthcoming research associated with the compound.
“What the fuck did you do, Cathy,” he breathed as he read things for a third time.
After which he looked up to find a shadowy figure standing about five feet away from him.
“Greetings, Dr. St. Claire,” a mechanical voice announced.
When a gun was pointed at him, Gus shouted and thrust his arms forward. But that didn’t do shit. As the contract fell off the counter in a flutter, he was shot, right in the chest.
THIRTY-TWO
THE MALE FIGURE was about to disappear, so she had to act fast.
Up on Deer Mountain, that was the thought that went through Lydia’s mind as she stared through wolven eyes at the red-robed entity before her. Spurred on by a sense of urgency, she immediately went into her transformation, shifting her form—and sure enough, as she initiated the change, he became totally transfixed.
Whatever it took, she thought as she gave herself up to the magic, the energy flowing through her being, her body trading its identities as easily as a suit of clothing.
When she was once again of biped nature, she put out her hands. “Don’t go.”
The male in all the robing simply stared at her, his eyes wide, his stance steady and tilted forward on his hips as if he were utterly astonished with what he had just seen—and for some reason, she didn’t think that boded well for him as some kind of savior. Weren’t destiny’s messengers supposed to be otherworldly and all-knowing?
Was this what Xhex had told her to come and find? If so, where was the light?
In the tense silence, Lydia thought of the number of times the ghost of her grandfather had visited her when she’d most needed his guidance—except he had only ever been a beacon warning her of a threat or dire consequence. He’d never actually told her anything about her situation.