Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
A short staircase leads me to a parking lot, while snow flutters about in tiny buttons, more ice than powder. Micah is on my heels, and as promised, a bike awaits us—a Harley, actually. I know it’s a Harley, as one of my clients favored them and talked incessantly about the varied makes, models, and mechanics. I’d listened, as listening has always served me well, and it turned out that had been smart. One of those tiny details the client had shared with me had been how I’d turned a liar’s testimony meant to demolish him into the way I’d set him free.
He deserved his freedom. He’d been innocent.
I hope.
For all I know, I’ve spent my career tricked into defending demons.
Micah hands me a helmet. “It’ll keep your face dry,” he says, pulling on his own before he straddles the bike, looking as comfortable as he would in the soft bed we left behind. The man’s a rockstar on this thing, in his element, arrogantly confident and good-looking, while for my part, I’m thinking, How the hell did I not fall off the first time I did this with him? Oh yeah. I know. I plastered my body to his and had not one ounce of shame over it, either. I’m about to throw pride aside and flaunt my fear by doing the same thing now, when the door we’d exited bursts open.
My gaze jerks that direction to find Celine standing there. Dressed in leather, her dark hair lifting in the wind, her eyes raging with anger—she’s the force of nature, not me. The burn in her eyes declares her a gorgeous goddess about to strike me into Hell for standing next to Micah, and I wonder if this is about power, Micah, or me. Could she genuinely think I’m about to drag him to Hell, and them afterward, and that Micah is blinded by me, maybe by whatever connection we share? Maybe she knows what it is and I do not. I also can’t help but wonder if she wants me dead before that can happen.
Micah dismounts and throws a command my direction. “Stay here.”
This is probably not the time to point out that I’m pretty bad at taking orders and that I’m freezing my ass off. Not to mention the fact that a Crystal Seer, who, per Micah, is destined to kill werewolves and demons, among other gnarly creatures, should be more of a badass. I doubt demons will care if I’m cold while attempting to kill me. Jeremy sure didn’t, though he seems more intent on using me than killing me.
Celine waits on Micah at the top of the stairs, as if she expects he’ll come up there to her, but considering his dominant presence, I gamble on a big, fat no. He’ll never allow himself to be dictated to, even in a nonverbal fashion. Sure enough, he halts at the bottom of the steps, a wide berth between them, his back firmly my direction. I have no idea what he says to her, but there’s a shift in her, as if she’s shrunk an inch, her body stiff. Her expression tightens enough to crack like an icy pond being skated on.
Micah rotates away from her, and before I’ve hardly processed his movement, he’s remounting the bike with the expectation of me joining him. I climb on behind him, my hands on his waist, and when my eyes land on the door again, Celine’s gone.
The Sacred Book of Nephilim
Magic is not your friend or foe. It will be both. It will be neither. It will be everything and nothing. It’s a cloak of deception and the revelation of truth. The only way to understand what it shows you is to understand where it lives inside you and what it is to you.
Be one with it. Own it, or be assured your enemy will own you.
Chapter twenty-two
Ashort ride later, Micah halts the Harley in an IHOP parking lot.
The weather has calmed—no more than flurries in the air—and the roads are mostly clear. With no signs of any yellow-eyed demons, I’m certain there must be a problem with the bike—why else would we be stopping here of all places? I dismount, anxiously awaiting Micah to join me and explain.
He dismounts, yanks off his helmet, and latches it to the bike, his dark hair a mussed-up mess that somehow works for him. “Let’s eat,” he says and starts walking toward the door.
I’m shellshocked one second, trying to get my helmet off the next. By the time I’ve disposed of the awkward thing and tried to right my hair that feels as if it’s standing on end, he’s at the door waiting on me. “Is this even safe for us right now?”
His eyes dance with mischief. “I’ve never been attacked by an egg or a pancake in my fairly long life, so I’d say we’re good.”