Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Hector opens his mouth, and I listen carefully as Latin fluidly falls from his mouth. “As I step down from my throne, my son will rise up. Blessed be the EKC.” Everyone chants beside him and I watch as a metal bowl is brought to the stage by a young boy in a cloak, with the attached hood over his head. Chills break over my flesh and I find myself searching the room. For what, I don’t know. I just know that something feels off. Like an entity inviting itself into a space where it is not welcome. I shift uncomfortably, standing visibly straighter. I find Tillie, who is smiling up at the stage. Go back to Hector, who is dipping his hand into the ancient style bowl and bringing his finger up to Bishop’s head. I then watch as all of the boys cut themselves, dropping blood into a goblet before taking a sip.
Unable to remain still, I begin pacing back and forth, searching for anything. Something. Why am I anxious? My stomach coils into thick knots, my throat burning like I swallowed acid as I attempt to contain the scream that wants to shred out of my organs.
Something is wrong.
I dive into my bra, pulling out the piece of paper. Something is not right. People are cheering, clapping, and yelling, but I’m making my way to the stage, needing to give this paper to him now.
Right now.
It’s burning against my flesh.
I’m at the stage by the time they all look down at me with a mixture of confusion. Their features range from perplexed, to shocked, to Bishop who is smiling, the metal gavel in his hand. The ceremony is over.
“Now they can all watch you die…”
That voice. So familiar. The taste of blood hits my mouth at the same time I hear shots pop off. My smile falls, my eyes on Bishop, and then to Brantley. They both rush forward, but I’m already falling to the ground and their movements are in slow motion. Boots, sticky liquid, my head pounding. Brantley is below me, holding my head on his lap. I can see his mouth moving, the veins in his neck popping out, and his hands flying everywhere, but I can’t hear. White noise fills my body. My arm drops to the side, into a puddle of something sticky—not from me—from someone else who was hit. Who else has been hit? My fingers sprawl out of my fist as Bishop falls to the ground, his gun in his hand. Don’t look at me! Look at my hand, damnit!
“Fuck!” he mouths, standing to his feet, raising his gun up, and I watch as bullet shells fly off behind him.
Finally, he comes back to the ground, and it happens.
His eyes land on my hand, his brows curve in, and I feel his palm graze mine as he takes the letter.
The letter that is going to mend what he needed to mend.
I smile softly, my heart lighter than the carnage that’s going on around me.
He shoves it into his pocket, screaming at someone behind him to get down here, and then Brantley’s body is gone from beneath me.
No! No! I need him. My vision is blurring now, like a static TV show long since expired from viewing. My head. Heat and pain reverberate over my skull, before traveling down my spine. There’s a stabbing pain that disappears every few seconds from my neck, but I feel the warm liquid slide down the arch of my back.
Hector is picking me up, his hands beneath my body, lifting me off the floor. My head falls backward over his arm, the room and chaos now upside down. With every blink, it stays dark for longer.
Brantley is standing in the middle of the room with that same boy who was in a robe kneeling in front of him. His hand is buried in the boy’s hair, fisting his head back. I watch as he directs the sharp end of his blade across his neck and blood spills out from the incision. He saws back and forth, until the torso falls to the ground, while Brantley continues to hold the boy’s head by his hair.
Black.
My body jolting with every step.
“Saint, come on, baby girl, stay with me.” Hector. Hector? What is he doing?
A car door opens. Gasping.
“This doesn’t look good!” A voice I don’t recognize.
“I know,” Hector hushes her, sliding into the car with me still in his arms. “Which is why we need to do this fast. We won’t have another opportunity. Is the other car ready?”
“I think I can save her,” the woman says. Her voice reminds me of candy. I cough, but blood rises up my throat.
“You will save her. That is not a question. She carries the curse, we have to take her back now.”