Series: The Un Series by Izzy Sweet
Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Using my hair as his handle, the Prophet drags me with him out of the room and up the stone stairs.
I feel the tugging on my scalp, but it doesn’t hurt.
However, it brings up some awful memories. Memories of my mother doing the same thing when I was younger.
And I wonder if that’s exactly why he’s doing it.
Don’t! my inner bitch warns a second before I act on the desire to tear myself free.
Hesitating, I snarl at her, Why not? Why should I let him drag me around? Shouldn’t I fight back?
Because something is off, my inner bitch says, sounding nervous for the first time. You should play possum for now.
Gritting my teeth together and trying to swallow down the huge lump filling my throat, I do as she says.
The Prophet pauses at the top of the stairs and turns his head to look at me. I peer back at him curiously, wondering why he stopped.
Slowly, almost gently, he slides his fingers out of my hair.
Can I attack him now? I ask my inner bitch.
No, she growls.
Taking a step back, the Prophet’s black scrutiny roams slowly down my body.
When he looks into your eyes, act as if you’re falling under his spell, my inner bitch snaps.
What?!
She screams inside my head, Act as if he’s Raphael!
The Prophet’s gaze begins to roam back up, and I do my best to soften my eyes when his black pits reach my face.
He peers at me for what feels like an eternity, and the only way I can keep my gaze soft is by blocking out his ugly white face and replacing it with Raphael’s.
“That’s better. Much better,” he purrs, then offers me his hand.
Take it and smile, my inner bitch instructs.
I grit out, Why am I doing this again?
Because he’s trying to do something to you that’s not working, she explains. And we don’t want him to know it.
Smiling, I place my hand in his.
Pretending it’s Raphael’s, I gently squeeze my fingers around his palm before his fingers squeeze around mine.
My very being wants to scream at the wrongness of it all. He is not my bonded. He is not my fated.
Not the other half of my soul.
He doesn’t complete me.
All he does is empty me out…
But my inner bitch keeps chanting, Smile. You love him!
The shield of darkness slowly fades back into existence, hiding his face a second before he tugs me along.
Leading me into the bright cathedral, his pressure on my hand keeps me right beside him.
The cathedral falls into silence.
Except for the dozens of living heartbeats pounding against my ears as the Prophet guides me to the pulpit.
“Brothers and Sisters!” the Prophet sings as if he is matching the tempo of a hymn.
A hymn I cannot hear.
I told you something was wrong, my inner bitch says.
Turning me with him to face the crowd, the Prophet lifts our joined hands in the air. “Rejoice! For our Mother Superior has been returned to us!”
I stare out at the sea of human faces and remember the last time I stood before so many people. Their faces bright with rage and spittle flying out of their mouths as they hurled insults and shoes at me.
My smile stretches as I think to myself, I’m going to rip all your throats out.
Not if the boys get to them first. My inner bitch laughs.
Some of the humans lift their arms in the air, as if reaching for the heavens. Some fall to their knees. Some pump their fists. And some simply stand with broad smiles.
But all call out as the Prophet ordered them, rejoicing my return.
Fools.
Look at their eyes, my inner bitch urges.
Peering at the closest human, a man dressed for battle with two long blades strapped to his back, I notice the strange gleam of his eyes.
It’s almost as if he’s been—
Glamoured, my inner bitch finishes for me.
My eyes dance across all the humans. All are dressed for battle. And all have the same strange maniacal gleam in their eyes.
If they’re all hunters and being fed blood, how are they glamoured?
Because the Prophet is more than a vampire, my inner bitch answers.
The Prophet lowers our joined hands, and his voice bounces off the beams and walls as he says, “But our work isn’t done! The beasts approach! They come to defile this holy sanctuary again! To spit in the face of our God, Almighty!”
I watch all the faces that were beaming with joy transform into fury. A fury that hits too close to home.
Their angry voices begin to call out in a battle chant. “Death to all beasts! And death to their whores!”
My hand tightens in reflex around the Prophet’s. Not in fear, but in anger.
His squeezes mine back reassuringly.
Ooohhh… you really have him fooled, my inner bitch drawls out before she giggles.
Can I bite him now? I ask.