Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I take in a slow breath, staring down Marcus. “Maybe I am the villain. But you’re the coward who started the fire and left me to burn. I did what was necessary to escape and if that makes me the bad guy, then so be it.” Shaking my head, I get up. “Now, if you excuse me, I have to go tell my husband how one of the Order council members just tried to bribe me into betraying him.”
The stunned look on Marcus’s face is worth it as I march out of there, but I know if I share this information with Xavier, there’s no way I can stop him from going to war.
Chapter
Eight
Heart in my throat, I walk out of that cafe and don’t even dare to look back. There are Order members stationed all along this street, and I’ll be damned before I let them see any emotion on my face even though I’m seething inside.
Marcus came into that meeting with the angle that he was saving me. But I know better. Even if it meant getting information about the Malus vampires, they wouldn’t help me. I hurry down the sidewalk, bothered by something I can’t place my finger on. It’s not just that they want info on the Malus family, but it’s that Marcus offered to help me.
The Order doesn’t make promises they can’t keep—they don’t make promises at all. So why would Marcus try to sell that story about my second-cousin? I know there are relatives of mine out there. My family line didn’t completely die with my parents. The Order would certainly know about my surviving family members.
But why send me to the UK? Xavier has family all over the world. It’s not realistic to think sending me away would protect me from them. I slow to a stop at a street corner, waiting next to two well dressed women, probably on their way to a fancy job in a fancy office, totally oblivious to what goes on in this city after dark.
Suddenly, a man comes rushing up behind us. You have got to be fucking kidding me. I am not in the mood to deal with an attempted mugging. Clenching my fists, I whirl around just as the man grabs one of the businesswoman’s arms. They both scream and the woman tries to jerk away.
“Hey!” I shout and the man jerks his head up, staring at me, but it’s like he’s looking through me, not into my eyes. He mumbles something unintelligible and pulls on the woman’s arm again. Her purse is hanging on the shoulder of her other arm—and he’s not going for it.
“Let her go,” I say and bring my hand down on the inside of his elbow, and the force breaks his connection. He turns, gaze locking in on mine. There’s something wrong with his eyes. At first, I think they’re bloodshot, but the red is too dark. Thick, black, inky lines web across the whites, and his pupils are too dilated for this time of day.
“Ratunku,” he says, reaching for me this time. “Ratunku!”
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I reply.
“Pomóż mi, szeptucha,” he says, tone begging and I just shake my head.
“Someone help!” one of the business women calls. “He’s trying to mug us!”
“I don’t think he is,” I say, but I’m too late. The man lets go of my arm and darts away, running into oncoming traffic. A Silverado truck hits him, and his body goes flying forward. There’s a collective silence followed by screams.
I stand there, stunned, just looking at the spot where the man was standing. There was something dark and familiar about his aura. It was something almost demonic. Shaking myself, I rush forward and spring into action.
“Call 911!” I tell one of the business women. One of them already has her phone out, but she’s too shocked to move. “Now!”
The driver of the truck—an older man with a full head of thick, gray hair—gets out and slowly walks over.
“He jumped in front of me. I couldn’t stop.” He clutches his chest and leans against the hood of the truck when he sees the man on the pavement, unmoving.
“I know, I saw the whole thing and so did all the CCTV cameras around here,” I say to soothe him. The last thing I need is this old man having a heart attack. Dropping down to my knees, I check the man for a pulse, though by the unnatural angle his head is twisted along with the gash on his forehead, I don’t think there’s a point. His arm is broken, with a bone tearing through the skin, and most of the flesh has been torn off the left side of his face from skidding along the rough pavement.
Yeah, this guy is dead as a doornail, probably killed from the impact and died before he even hit the ground.