Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 147891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147891 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Caz stares at it, shaking his head furiously. “I gather nothing but bad energy from his place.”
A silhouette moves past the window just as he says that, the shape of a woman with big, poofy hair who I swear has claws as she reaches for something in front of her.
I level my breathing, though I get the same bad vibe he does.
“You have your gun,” I remind him, keeping my voice steady.
“My gun’ll be useless if she’s a vanisher,” he reminds me.
Right. The vanishing Mythics. “Well let’s hope she isn’t one.” I unclip my seatbelt as Caz pushes his door open. When I meet up to him, he keeps an eye of our surroundings. I take the three broken steps up, stopping at the door. “Ready?” I breathe.
Caz raises his gun to his chest, providing a simple nod.
There’s a doorbell next to the door, and I jam my thumb down on it. The tiny house rings to life, chiming like church bells.
We wait for the door to be answered, but after a few seconds, nothing. I try the doorbell again, and this time I hear rapid footsteps moving throughout the shop.
Immediately, the door is snatched open, and a woman appears, her hair a voluminous snowy afro trailing all the way down to her waist. Her piercing ice-blue eyes narrow as she glares at me, her skin complexion similar to damp coffee grounds. Her eyes are blue and electrifying, quite similar to Caz’s. Alluring and intimidating. She shifts her gaze to Caz, and before I can say a word, she lifts a flat palm in the air, blows dust into our faces, and everything fades to black.
Chapter 37
WILLOW
I open my eyes with a groan and try to swallow, but my mouth and throat are so dry, it feels like the saliva is riding on sandpaper. I shift in the chair I’m on and jerk forward, realizing I’ve been restrained.
When I look down, I don’t see anything wrapped around me—no rope or cords or chains. I try again, but my arms don’t budge. There’s something there though. I feel it constricting around my arms, pressing into my skin.
“What the hell?” I breathe, trying to move again and failing.
A deep groan rumbles next to me, and I look to my right at Caz. His head lifts, wisps of hair clinging to his damp forehead.
“Caz? You okay?” I whisper. Talking makes my mouth feel dryer.
He blinks a few times before finally focusing on me. He also tries moving out of his chair but is forced back into the seat.
“What the hell is going on?” he demands.
When he turns his head to look around, I do the same. We’re in a dark room with vintage floral wallpaper, minus one wall that has a mid-size mirror on it. The mirror’s frame is intricately designed with a gold border. Candles flicker before it, plants surrounding it, alive and dead. I carry my gaze up, and instead of a ceiling, dead flower stems dangle from above.
Ahead of us is a two-top table, a round glass bowl in the center filled with Mardi Gras beads, and a container of strawberries. More candles are on the table, the wax from them dripping onto the aged wood. Just like Phil said, it smells of incense and a whisper of fish. The incense give off a sage and dragon’s blood aroma, and I see them burning next to the mirror on a stand, small embers falling off and turning to ash on the floor. The fishy smell has me confused. I’m not sure where that’s coming from, and I don’t have much time to figure it out because a person appears at the opening behind the table. The woman who answered the door steps around the corner with her hands at her sides and her chin raised high.
I hold back a gasp as she makes her way toward the middle of the room, looking us over with piercing blue eyes. She wears dark colors like blacks and deep greens, and she’s dressed in so many layers that I can’t decipher what part of the outfit is what. A kimono, a corset, a camisole, waist beads, leggings beneath a billowy brown skirt. And her nails—I see why they looked like claws from her silhouette outside the window. They’re long, stiletto-shaped, and painted a striking silver.
She’s quiet as she strides around our chairs, her head cocked, studying nearly every detail of us. Then, finally, she speaks.
“You’re Cold Tethered.” Her voice is soft but husky, and she has an accent similar to Alora’s.
I look to Caz, who is glaring at the woman with a rapidly ticking jaw. His eyes move to the right at a shelf, and I look with him. His gun is there, not too far out of reach. If only we could move, he could grab it and use it.