Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 126570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126570 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
But there’s a small rusting dumpster that’s more than big enough to fit Charity’s body.
This is not payback, I tell myself as I tug her over to the dumpster.
This is the only way I can protect her and help her survive the rest of the night.
Grabbing the lid, I throw it back, banging it against the wall, and rock back on my heels as the smell hits me.
It freaking reeks.
And that’s what makes it perfect.
If the smell makes me want to hurl chunks, a vampire will surely stay clear. They’ll never scent her out over the stench of rotting food and dirty diapers.
In a hurry, I don’t bother trying to gently lift her up. I just grab her around the waist and toss her over the edge.
Charity lands with a soft thump in the middle of the garbage, bits of paper and candy wrappers fluttering up around her.
Gripping the rim of the dumpster, I lean toward her and say, “Stay here and be quiet. Don’t come out until the morning.”
Then I slam the lid down, hoping today isn’t garbage pickup day.
“Saint Benedict, protect her,” I murmur quietly as I jog back down the alley. “See her safely through the night, for she is innocent and one of God’s most devoted. Amen.”
The moment I step back onto the street, my mark flares to life.
He’s close… too close…
Alarm buzzing in my veins, I don’t think I just act. Fight or flight sending me teleporting down the street.
When I reach the next intersection, I notice I’m not nearly as tired as before. Perhaps having Charity with me was draining me of energy…
Still afraid I won’t be able to make it all the way home and focused on simply leading him away from Charity, I teleport over and over again. Not even thinking about the direction I’m going in.
All I’m doing is picking the furthest object I can see and willing myself next to it.
The lights of the city pass by me in a fuzzy blur as I run for what feels like hours. With my mark throbbing the entire time.
The knowledge that’s he’s still closely pursuing me both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing because I know he didn’t go after Charity.
And a curse because my energy is waning.
I’m running myself haggard, past the point of exhaustion.
Reaching a four-way intersection, I grab onto a pole and lean against it to catch my breath.
Should I stop here? I wonder and sweep my eyes over the area around me.
Is this the place I die?
Or should I push a little more?
Push until I’m so tired I won’t even be aware of what he does to me?
Every bone and muscle hurting, I notice a bench and consider sitting down on it to meet my fate.
What a way to die… my butt sitting on a bus bench, waiting.
Hysterical laughter begins to bubble up inside me, pushing against my lips to be free.
All my life I’ve been running only to be caught where I spend once a week waiting for the bus to take me to church.
Jolting, I look at the bench more closely then glance down the street in shock.
Somehow I’ve managed to find my way back to my neighborhood.
Too relieved to worry about how such a thing could be possible, I gather up the last of my strength and will myself home.
Appearing in front of my house, I let out a small cry then fling the door open. Stumbling inside, I slam the door behind me, lock it, and lean against it.
I made it home.
Twelve
Chloe
Sending up prayers of thanks to God, Saint Benedict, and every other saint I can think of, I try to gather my wits.
The throbbing in my thigh is so strong it pounds up and down my leg and I know my monster is getting closer, but now that I’m inside my house, I’m safe.
He can’t come in unless I invite him.
And nothing at this point would compel me to do that.
Nothing.
Fortifying myself with that knowledge, I push away from the door and stumble into the living room.
There, right where I left it on the floor, is my bag.
Scooping up my bag, I dig out my phone.
I check to see if I have any messages first—I don’t—then dial Father McCall.
The phone rings and rings before going to voicemail.
Growing irritated that he’s not answering and still hasn’t checked in after I tried to call him this morning, I hang up and redial his number.
Again, the line rings and rings and goes to voicemail.
Fighting the urge to scream in frustration, I hang up and try one more time to get through.
When the line pushes me to voicemail this time, I shout my codeword, “Franciscan delicacy!” and hang up.
Hopefully that will get me an answer, and if not… I don’t know what I’ll do.
Too tired to pace in worry, I clutch my phone, willing it to ring.