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)
“Oh, boy. Here we go.”
“What? It doesn’t, not if he’s speaking literally.”
I fight a laugh as I pull my arms away and pick up my drink, downing the rest of it. As I fish into my purse for some cash, someone walking past roughly bumps into Caz. Caz grunts as he catches himself before stumbling into me, and the person stomps away.
“Oi! Jackass! You just bumped into me!” he shouts at the man’s back.
I look past Caz at the man who is rushing through the bar in a brown hoodie. He doesn’t look back as he leaves the hotel, and I frown, watching him go, and then there’s that itch on the back of my neck again. I give it a scratch before placing cash on the counter.
“I hate this world,” Caz grumbles. “Can we get back to the room now? Prepare for tomorrow?”
“Yes. Let’s go.” He helps me off the stool, leading the way out of the bar and toward the elevators.
“I didn’t take the elevator down, by the way,” he says. “Couldn’t figure it out, so I took the stairs.”
“Did you really?” I feel that annoying itch on the back of my neck again, and when I press the button for the elevator, Caz rubs the area.
“Why do you keep scratching there?” He pushes some of my locs out of the way. “Leave it be. You’re causing a rash.”
I rub the irritated patch of skin as the elevator doors spring open and we walk inside. As we ride up to our floor, a pounding builds in my head, and then the elevator comes to an abrupt stop. Ice splinters up the walls, cracking the mirrors and freezing the buttons. Caz grips my hand, pulling me into him and holding me close.
“What’s happening?” I gasp.
Caz says nothing as the elevator darkens, minus a flickering light above. The elevator begins to rattle, then it lurches and causes us to buckle, going at a speed that’s much too fast. Caz pulls me even closer as a voice croaks, “You will be mine, Caspian Harlow.”
Decius.
The elevator continues to rattle a few seconds longer and then it just…stops. The ice fades, and the elevator illuminates with the original LED lighting. The cracks in the mirror are gone, and the buttons are as they were.
When the doors separate, dumping us onto our floor, we hurry to the room and lock the door behind us, though I’m not quite sure that’ll save us.
“He’s found another vessel,” Caz pants, peering out the window again.
“How do you know?”
“He’s getting stronger. He’s using something. Or someone. He has to be close.”
I scratch my neck again then hiss when my nails break the skin. Caz rushes to me, pushing my locs out of the way again. He stiffens at my side. “Willow,” he breathes.
“What? What is it?” I ask as he stares at the back of my neck.
“How do you take pictures on you cellphone thing?”
I dig into my tote, fishing it out, showing him how, then dropping it in his palm. He snaps a picture of the back of my neck. When he brings it down and I see the picture on the screen, my breath stalls because it’s no longer a rash on the back of my neck. They’ve turned into veins.
“Does this mean he can get into our heads again?”
Caz works his jaw, head shaking. “Do you think we should go to the Effie woman tonight?” he asks. “If all these people are partying, surely, she’s up too.”
“We can try, but the hours for her shop said one to five p.m.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t there. Look, if he’s found a bigger vessel, there’s no way of me knowing it. A snake is easy, but if it’s a person, it could be anyone, and if they capture me, that’ll give him way more energy. He’ll take us right back to Vakeeli, back in his grasp, I’m sure of it.”
I slide the straps of my tote onto my shoulder. “Let’s go by her shop and see what we can find.”
Caz has his gun in hand before I even turn for the door.
Chapter 36
WILLOW
Yakaree is on the cusp of Central City and the Central Business District. Being only a five-minute drive (and fifteen-minute walk) from the French Quarter, I can understand how this Effie woman remains in business. She’s not entirely on the bad side of the city, but she’s close, and the location gives any tourist an excuse to be adventurous without crossing too far into crime-ridden territory.
Night has fallen, the autumn air cool, spilling through the slit windows of the vehicle. I park along the curb in front of her shop and tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
Effie’s shop is a tiny place with a brown exterior. Large bold letters spelling out Yakaree are painted at the top of the shop, and pillar candles flicker on the sill from the inside. Iron bars line both windows, as if imprisoning anyone who dares enter, and a three-step stoop leads to a dingy black door that appears to have been knocked down and replaced too many times to count.