Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152666 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 763(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 509(@300wpm)
“Yes, Alpha. I’ll show you—“
“No.” I held out a hand. “Just give me directions. I want you to get all this squared away as quickly as possible. I can pick through her things just fine.”
She rattled off some directions and I was on my way, looking at the little cottages on the lane as I passed. They were in a state of disrepair, with a few visible patches making them habitable. All of them, without exception, were tiny.
I knew her cottage immediately, not because it was bigger than the others—it was not—or because it was newer or better in any way—it wasn’t. It was because of the care and attention she seemingly paid to every detail.
The quaint little dwelling sat nestled between two others, its rustic charm enveloping it like a warm embrace. Its walls were slightly weathered by time but washed clean and its window frames were freshly painted a pristine white to match the picket fence surrounding a patch of lush green grass. A few struggling flowers added a pop of color; saffron yellow, periwinkle and teal hugged the walls and partially outlined some of the porch. It was clear she wasn’t any better at gardening than her counterparts. Even so, the dirt in which they grew was devoid of weeds and still moist, serving as proof she attempted their care as best she could.
I unlatched the gate and then swung it open as a neighbor peered out her doorway from the cottage on the right.
“What sort of a neighbor is this woman?” I asked, stopping in the middle of the walkway.
She pulled her sweater tighter around her as she stepped out gingerly, her face deeply lined with age.
She pursed her lips. “Quiet. She keeps to herself, as she should.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, because of her . . . affliction, you know.” She lifted her brow, the gravity of the situation evident.
“Her affliction?” I asked slowly.
“Didn’t you do your research before barging in here? She’s one of them duds. I thought everyone knew that. No magic. Not a lick. Now . . .” She squinted her eyes at me. “People say they’s contagious, but she hung around with that Wilkens boy for a good stint and he never caught nothing. No one else has gotten sick with it and lost their magic, neither. I reckon that it’s just a wives tale.”
Contagious? Fucking hell, these people were certainly living in the past.
In this kingdom a long time ago, it had been somewhat taboo to be without one’s animal. People feared that which was different, any situation they didn’t understand. Someone without access to their animal was automatically considered to be without magic, something that was actually incredibly rare. Those “afflicted” were often outcast and usually despised for no reason.
When I left this kingdom—when I was forcibly taken by the demons—there were still some superstitions and prejudices against those without access to their animal, but overall people had been better educated about the situation. In my experience, anyway. Clearly in the forgotten places like this, that outdated mentality was still prevalent.
Rage simmered low in my gut.
“What makes you think she has no magic?” I asked, wanting to be sure. “Because she can’t feel her animal?”
“Her mama didn’t have no magic,” she replied as though she’d unequivocally proved her case. “That gene is always passed down. They said her mama went to all sorts of alphas—one that got her with child, if you can believe that. Couldn’t find no magic. Shame on her mother, but then alphas do have their wiles…”
Her eyebrow arched, a harsh judgment on me.
My stare bowed her spine. Her gaze snapped downward.
Magiclessness was rarely passed down. That was fear talking. Judgment. Superstition.
To have a person like this as a neighbor, constantly judging, always looking down on you?
The sentiment was still true. What a miserable fucking life.
“Thank you for your time,” I told the older woman, my tone as harsh as my stare. “I am not here to use her in a similar . . . field of . . . employ. I’m here to escort her to her judgment. Her practices are unlawful. It’s time she pays the price. Speaking of, is there anyone else that should stand in judgment for their part in all of this?”
The short answer was mostly no, except for Mr. Poet and a few of the lackluster gardeners. The “dud” was basically a one-woman show.
As she spoke, I realized the people here didn’t have much choice in their lives. If they left the territory—if anyone left the territory—they’d need permission and to be escorted. At least one child would have to stay behind. Granny was holding hostages, using the children as leverage to ensure no one spoke about their tasks or their locations. It’s how she was able to keep her secret so airtight.