Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Raya’s eyes cloud over. “You pretend to be so indifferent, so calm, making light out of everything, but I know you’re just as scared about what’s to come in this room … all the ways this could go so terribly wrong. And after all we’ve done to prepare for this night—going behind Lord Markadian’s back, deceiving George into gathering these … these ridiculous things …” she spits out with a careless gesture at the long metal table and its odd contents. “Tristan, I swear, if this was all for nothing …”
Let’s have a little more faith, he suggests. Mance is, after all, the only expert we know in this particular practice … and desperate times call for desperate experts. Oh, by the way, can you cover up the corpse’s penis with more ice? I’ve been staring at it for an hour.
Raya rolls her eyes and moves to the door. “If you need me, I shall be in the supply closet down the hall trying not to hang myself out of boredom.”
The moment the door closes again, Tristan lays his head back down, this time on the uncomfortable counter instead of her soft lap. His rest lasts approximately six seconds before he lifts his head and peers at the bin again. After a minute’s pause, he hops off the counter and approaches, hesitating to come too close. From this angle, Brock merely looks asleep in a bath of ice, perfectly alive, if not for his unnaturally greyish, dead skin. Tristan finds himself thinking about one of the first times he encountered Brock and how adorable he looked when angered. It’s almost sweet, how his cheeks would flush, eyebrows tugging together, how his eyes became so alive with conviction. Tristan nearly fell in love right there in the hallway of that Texas high school as Brock kept spitting insults at him, jabbing his finger at Tristan’s face, puffing himself up in front of his jock friends flanking him—Kyle being one of them.
Tristan smiles down at Brock as the memories flood in. His smile fades, a childlike curiosity taking over. He reaches out to touch Brock’s face, then stops, uncertain. He takes a step closer, up to the cold metal edge, his fingertips seeming to breathe in the icy air. He reaches again, this time with more courage.
“You ain’t about to fuck him, are you?”
Tristan retracts his hand at once and spins.
Mance stands by the doorway, tattered cowboy hat cocked downward shadowing all his face save for his twisted lips. He’s in a trench coat with the collar popped over the back of his neck, little else visible except for his leather pants and boots.
“Well, would you look at that,” sings Mance as he saunters to the table full of items. He whistles and shakes his head. “You collected all this shit for me, huh? Man, I’m impressed.”
Is there anything else you need for the ritual? asks Tristan.
“I see you’re almost done chowin’ down on that bracelet I gave you.” Mance smirks and leans against the table, causing one stack of books to shift slightly. He clicks his tongue. “You must really got a boner for whoever it is you’ve been thinkin’ about every hour for the last day or two.”
Four days, states Tristan. One hundred beads I’ve eaten. I counted.
“One hundred hours. Fuck me sideways, that’s a lot of lost sleep, huh?” Mance licks his lips, clearly enjoying his taunting of Tristan. “You must be feelin’ like a slug on a rug. Hey, don’t forget the hand-stabby part, the most important part, comes at the end like a big ol’ orgasm outta your palm.”
How kind of you to remind me.
Mance pushes away from the table—causing two books to topple off the leftmost stack and onto the tray of charred tree bark with a clumsy crash—and saunters up to the other side of the ice bin, staring down at the corpse. “Fuckin’ rank, huh? Ice only helps so much, especially when you bloodsuckers have that heightened sense of smell.” He finds that funny, laughs. “Part of the business. Used to it.” He leans forward, hands on the edge of the ice bin. Tristan winces, wondering if it stings. “Handsome dead fella.”
You get a lot of business? asks Tristan, looking up.
“No one can afford me anymore.” He reaches into the bin, takes a cube of ice, weighs it in his palm. Tristan is reminded of Mance’s dark fingertips and sickly greenish spots on the backs of his hands. “I guess I’m startin’ to see the finer sides of bein’ alive, sides far finer than money. You like bein’ alive, Tristan? Can I even call you bloodsuckers alive, or you prefer ‘undead’?”
Alive is just fine, and I do enjoy it.
“Of course you do. We all do. So did this sad fella. Brock?” he asks, as if to be sure of the name. Tristan gives a mild nod. “I value life, believe it or not, and I respect it when a person’s time comes. This act tonight comes at a great personal cost to me.” He lets out a sigh as he flicks the ice back into the bin, landing on Brock’s chest. “And yet you still refuse to pay my price.”