Series: The Sacrifice Series by Natasha Knight
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Emmanuel and Raven enter not a minute later, and I study the two of them. Between us, we killed seven men that day. Seven men in the span of ten, fifteen minutes.
Frederik was dead inside the church. From the looks of it, they’d drowned him in holy water.
Amos almost died. He’s in a coma two floors up. He’s not a Society member, but I want to be sure I’m the first to talk to him if or when he wakes. He might have information for me about Caleb’s whereabouts. I don’t care that he was protesting Bec’s execution. He’s as crazy and as guilty as the rest, as far as I’m concerned. But I’ll need any information I can get. Caleb Church may have vanished, but his fixation on Willow, his conviction to do her harm—hell, to murder her—is as strong as ever. Of that, I have no doubt. It’s only a matter of time until he strikes again.
“You and I need to talk soon,” Barrett says.
I nod. He’s right. But now is not the time.
As the family collects, I kiss the top of Willow’s head and excuse myself. I need to have a conversation with Salomé before I bring Willow home. It’s time to have my reckoning with her.
I don’t think she meant to let Willow out of the house, although I don’t know how the Disciples managed to open the gate. According to the security system, nothing was tampered with. Salomé letting Willow go makes no sense because the woman follows that Book of Tithes like it’s her fucking bible. That offering of hair to Shemhazai had been a good faith gesture that what he is owed will be paid.
Owed.
No. I shake my head bitterly at my choice of words. It’s what he demands. He is owed nothing.
Salomé has made herself scarce, though. My grandmother has feigned illness and kept to her room.
Tonight, the house is dimly lit when I enter. This place is dark on the brightest of days. I make a mental note to look into widening the original window frames to let in more light. Willow would like that, I think. And paint, maybe. Yes. Paint to cast the shadows out.
Mom had wanted to do that too, but Dad had been hesitant. I think it was his fear, him holding on to the things he had been told all his life, too afraid to risk Shemhazai’s wrath.
“Where is Salomé?” I ask one of the staff, who is preparing a dinner tray.
“She’s upstairs in her room, sir. She wasn’t feeling well.”
“Has the doctor been called?” I ask, seeing the simple bowl of broth and a glass of water on the tray. That’s nothing for my grandmother.
“Not since earlier this week.” I’ve been spending all my time at the hospital apart from coming home to shower and change. Given my anger at my grandmother, I’ve been happy to avoid her, but now I wonder if she’s truly ill.
“I’ll take the tray up,” I tell the woman who nods and hands it over.
I carry it upstairs and knock at my grandmother’s door before opening it. I have a feeling that if I say it’s me, she’ll send me away, so I don’t announce myself. Seeing the near-panicked surprise on her face when I enter tells me I’m right.
“Grandmother,” I say as I enter and close the door behind me.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed in her long white nightgown. She is quick to open the nightstand drawer and push the bottles of whatever medications the doctor has given her in.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, trying but failing to get a glimpse of even one of the labels before she closes the drawer.
“As if you care,” she says, sitting back against the headboard and pointing to where I can set the tray. She folds her arms across her chest and looks away like a petulant child.
“What’s going on?” I ask, gesturing to the drawer.
“Nothing. The usual. Getting older.” She studies me. “Go on then. You have something to say.”
It’s strange seeing her in her nightgown. She never leaves the room unless she’s fully dressed, her hair combed back and contained in a tight bun at her nape. She looks almost vulnerable like this, in the long white gown, her hair loose with the wiry curls combed out. It’s still thick and long, well past her shoulders.
When I meet her eyes, though, that usual hardness is there.
“I’m bringing Willow home tomorrow.”
Nothing. Not a blink. Not a breath. Not even a down turning of her lips.
I don’t mention the pregnancy.
“Well, that’s as it should be. We will carry on as if this little episode never took place. The offering has been made. Shemhazai has obviously forgiven you, and now that she knows the truth, well, it will make things easier.”