Total pages in book: 194
Estimated words: 187021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 935(@200wpm)___ 748(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 187021 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 935(@200wpm)___ 748(@250wpm)___ 623(@300wpm)
But before he could act, the magical artifact that he’d been certain was a fake had lit up like the Fourth of July. All of the worshippers fell to their knees as their life force was siphoned out of them and pulled into the magic artifact. The entire sect fell over dead.
Graves walked over to the table and picked up the artifact. He sighed, resigned. “You want to take this back to your boss?”
Laz stepped out of the shadows, gun raised. “What are you?”
Graves wouldn’t have an answer for him for many years. “It’s a cheap knockoff. It isn’t supposed to kill everyone.” He tossed it to Laz, who caught it on instinct.
Curious, despite himself, he asked, “What’s it supposed to do?”
“They claimed it was an amplifier, a tracker. Supposedly, it was how Vlad destroyed so many of his enemies,” Graves said. “Couldn’t be that he was just a vicious son of a bitch clinging to power in uncertain times.”
“How were you involved with the cult?” Laz asked, gun still trained on him.
“Same as you. Infiltration.” Graves shrugged off the robes, revealing the suit beneath. He wiped his hands on the expensive material. “Though I’m not a fan of the dirty work. Looking for a job?”
“I have a job.”
“The CIA. I know.” Graves grinned at him, dangerous, powerful. “Want to work for me instead?”
Laz should have said no. There was no reason for him to risk his career for this egoist who had infiltrated a Vlad the Impaler cult for an artifact that he didn’t even believe would work. But he’d seen magic when he’d always been assured there was none. And by the end of the night, he’d said yes.
Graves looked exactly the same as that day in Romania all those years ago. He lounged back against his limo in his tailored suit, typing away on his phone as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Your luggage, sir,” Laz said.
“The trunk. Thank you,” Graves said. “I’ll keep the hat box up here.”
“Of course, sir.” Laz brought him the cauldron and carefully placed it on the backseat. “Kingston?”
“Occupied for now. Kierse?”
“Exiting through the back as arranged.”
“Excellent.” Graves took out a folded hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Laz. “Good work.”
“Thank you, sir,” Laz said as Graves smoothly sank into the back of his limo.
Laz shut the door tight and watched for a moment as the cauldron left the premises. They’d done it. It had gone off without a hitch.
Laz deposited the cart at the entrance and headed for the break room.
It was only then that Walter’s voice came over the line. “I’ve been booted out of the system.”
He had just gotten inside and asked, “You’ve lost the footage?”
“It’s gone. Everyone out now.”
Edgar grabbed the last remaining things from his locker, ready to exit the premises, when Walter said, “Kierse has gone offline.”
And Graves was already gone.
Part VI
the summer solstice
Chapter Sixty-Four
Kierse’s head was pounding. Her mouth felt like she’d swallowed cotton balls. Her eyes stung like she was cutting fresh onions. She could still smell the laced chloroform. It turned out she could still be knocked out by the shit, even as a wisp. Good times.
“Graves,” she said out loud.
No response. She couldn’t feel the earpiece in place anymore. Fuck.
She peeled her eyes open, but she might as well not have. The room was pitch black. She could only make out that she was in some kind of conference room from the strip of light coming in under the door. The only sound was the air-conditioning system blowing cold air on her face. She was tied to a wooden chair with some kind of thick rope. She wiggled against the bindings and immediately hissed as they dug in.
Not just ropes. Iron.
She froze like a deer in headlights. Who else knew what she was? That iron would be a better restraint than rope?
They had been careful. She’d been wearing her glamours all the time around New York, just as she had in Dublin. The only people she’d told she was Fae, besides those who had been there the night she had discovered her identity—Graves, Lorcan, Ethan, and Gen—were Nate, Colette, Oisín, and Niamh. None of them would betray her.
But that wasn’t true, was it? Rio knew. Though she doubted this was their handiwork. No, there was one other person in Manhattan who knew her identity. The person who had put the spell on her to begin with—Cillian Ryan.
The cultist’s voice came back to her then: The Curator has been waiting for you.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They’d been so careful. And still, somehow, she’d been caught in the trap. She might have been strong enough to burst through rope, but the iron had enough of a dampening effect to make her nauseous. Or was that the drugs? Maybe both.
The question was: what was he going to do with her?