Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“Bryn talks to you like he’s your boss,” I add. “Not your brother. Do I answer to him or to you?”
“Cut it out,” Thor growls. “I know what you're trying to do, and it isn’t going to work.”
“He walks into your bathroom, tells you where to put me. Seems to me he pisses all over your territory, mate. I’m surprised he doesn’t have your hammer.”
By now, we’re back down in the dungeon. It is a fucking freaky place, and I don't want to be left here.
“If you guys had wanted to make real money, you should have told everybody there was a dungeon, and you’d put them in it if they were very naughty. People pay good money for that.”
“You killed someone with stolen property today. Little less flippancy, please.”
“It was self-defense. Whatever he was going to do to me, I don’t think I would have liked, and also, the more I think about it, the more it really seems like the hammer did it.”
“Is a jury going to buy that?”
“Well. I don’t know. Depends how good my lawyer is, and if you testify that you’re Thor, ancient god of thunder. And if the hammer itself is entered into evidence, which it would have to be or they don’t actually have the weapon, which is important.”
Thor picks me up again. He treats me more like a recalcitrant pet to be carried about than a person capable of walking on her own. I suppose in our brief history, me walking around has caused him no end of trouble.
“What are you going to do with me? Or to me? You can’t keep me here forever. Someone will notice I’m missing. And you can’t turn me in, or…”
“Quiet,” he growls down at me. “I’m well aware of how much trouble you are, and how much trouble you might yet cause.”
He drops me into a cell and closes the door behind me.
“Thor,” I say, grasping the bars. “Please don’t leave me here.”
He ignores me.
It has been many hours and still I am whimpering to myself in the dark. I hate Thor more than I have hated anybody. He has no right to put me here, to violate my body and then to contain me. Far as I’m concerned, if someone fucks your arse with their hammer, they should let you stay in their room. Not this dark, terrifying undercroft. I don’t know if that’s the right word, but it is definitely the right feeling.
I hear a creak in the distance. There’s a sliver of light that grows and then thins again.
Thor! He’s come back for me.
I hear footsteps and try to compose myself. I don’t want him to know that I have been crying. I want to keep up the appearance of being utterly emotionally untouchable.
I smell food. Smells like a fish and chip shop. My mouth begins to water and my mood starts to lift. Food and company, two things no captive can live without. Everything is going to be okay.
But it’s not Thor. It is a much more refined gentleman. When he speaks, I recognize his voice from the phone. What was his name again? Did he ever tell me?
“I thought you might be hungry, miss. I’ve brought you something to eat.” He's bought me a hot chip butty. Common food. I’m surprised someone with an accent like his even knows what it is, let alone deigns to bring it to me in his own refined hand.
“Did Thor tell you to feed me?”
He bristles silently but visibly. “I do not need to be told to ensure that guests are well tended to.”
“I am hardly a guest. More like a prisoner.”
“That is a matter not in my purview. Ensuring that your basic needs are met is.”
He passes the plate through a slot in the bars. I take it in both hands. I don't know what the time is, but it feels late. This will be a midnight feast to remember. I settle back down on the bed, plate on my knees, and I take the sandwich in both hands. The bread is thick and soft, homemade, I am sure. The chips are thick and hand cut, and really well fried with crunchy bits left on the ends. The first mouthful is hot and salty with that perfectly fried hint of fat that immediately satisfies and soothes.
“I never understood why they installed these infernal things," he says conversationally, running his hand up the cage that holds me. “The enemies of the Brotherhood are not ones to be confined by physical bars.”
“I’m not an enemy of the Brotherhood. I don’t know what the Brotherhood is.”
“You have made an enemy of them yourself by your actions, I am afraid.”
“So who are they? What is their deal? Obviously not simple priests and friends.”
“The Brotherhood is a blood sworn order of men sworn to protect what is pure on this Earth.”