Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I look at Creed waiting for his verdict, but he only glares at Haide, a look I can’t decipher on his face. He’s probably digging around in her head for answers.
I kind of want to deck him for it. I don’t want anyone touching her, and that includes her mind. But he had a hard time reading London’s mind before she and Knight bonded, and it was due to her powers. I’ve got a feeling it’s the same with Haide.
Haide spreads her arms, mock-offended. “Oh, come on. If I were going to start murdering roommates, do you think I’d pick now? Middle of the hall, mid-panic, no theatrics at all? Where’s the fun?”
“London,” Vicente calls gently and then a barrier is thrown up around us, even Haide is stuck on the outside.
They can see us, but they can’t hear.
“What is it, Vicente?” Creed pushes, keeping an eye on those around us.
Vicente finally rises, his gaze locking on me, then sliding to Knight. His words scrape the cavern like bone dragged across stone. “Darrow’s mother had a partner before she found her fated mate. Once she did, it was game over for the partner and so he tried to kill her. The fated stepped in, saved her life, and the jaded Fae was dealt with.”
Heat curls sharp in my chest. “What are you saying?”
Vicente’s stare hardens. “You know what.”
The crowd screams again, the sound breaking through our private conversation, and London lets the barrier drop.
The crowd parts and we slip through, finding yet another message. This time in a smear across the floor, blood undercut with the scent of gasoline.
My patience is running out.
“Shit,” Creed hisses.
“What is it?” The words fly from me with urgency, because I know that fucking face.
He knows something.
And it’s bad.
Chapter Fifteen
Haide
I’d be lying if I said I slept well last night which is annoying because one, I didn’t even care for my roommate—she spoke too much—and two, what do I care that these assholes immediately blame me for someone dying?
So my track record isn’t that great.
So maybe I did threaten to kill people as soon as I got here.
And okay, there was that one guy in Warcraft class. But that was a misunderstanding—even if he did need to be knocked down a couple steps. Also, I am sort of hardwired to forget when you die off the island, you’re actually dead and it’s really hard to rewire your brain from that.
But the second Creed mentioned the potential of any unknown powers, I’ve found myself more intrigued.
Which brings me to the issue at hand: People keep staring. Any other day, I wouldn’t give a fuck. I’d wink, but I’m about one bad decision from being torn away from learning more about myself. Since I don’t know anything outside of the fact that I was born on an island that was created for evil, magical beings. It’s a dangerous game, to…hope for something. A game I do not fucking play on principle.
And yet, here the fuck I am.
Rounding the corner to one of the many identical gothic buildings around campus, I pull out my Pathway Codex and flip through the pages. Before Elena died, she told me this book would be everything I needed. That the pages are bound specifically for its owner and will do everything to ensure said owner gets exactly what is destined for them.
I call bullshit, but right now, it’s doing a good job at directing me to where my next class is.
SpellChemy 101. Great. Another fancy class I can suck at so everyone can once again point fingers at the weird feral girl Legend dragged off a prison island.
Thirty faces turn at once, hungry. I bare my teeth, a little. Just enough to say, try me.
The book creaks in my grip, my fingers leaving dents in the leather, but I keep my game face on.
The professor’s silver braid coils around her neck like something venomous as she turns. Her eyes flick over me for half a heartbeat before continuing as if I’m just another desk.
Her chalk scrapes against the board without her doing it. “SpellChemy. The art of twisting what should not be twisted,” she says. I know women like her. There are plenty on the island. They may be small, petite, and charming, but one step and they’d drop you.
I think I like her.
Using the edge of her nail, she cleans the rim of her lipstick while staring at her reflection in a compact mirror. “The science of violence.” She snaps the mirror closed with a forced smile that shows all her teeth. “If you’re clever enough to survive it.”
Someone behind me coughs. The sound wet and desperate, but nobody acknowledges them. I think of the pit back home. The way the weak ones coughed right before blood started coming up.
I miss the island. I miss the rogue nature of my people. How they didn’t give a single fuck for the prim and perfect because Exile was where shit like that went to die.