Total pages in book: 178
Estimated words: 169578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 848(@200wpm)___ 678(@250wpm)___ 565(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 848(@200wpm)___ 678(@250wpm)___ 565(@300wpm)
Maggie lifted her head and a mess of tumbled gold curls fell over her eyes. “Where are you running off to?”
Dane shoved his legs into his pants and hoisted up the suspenders. “There’s a council meeting today.”
She laughed and flopped back onto the bed with disinterest. “And why would that concern you?”
Her bare breasts tempted him to rethink his schedule. No. This meeting was important. He shoved the thought of having her one more time away. There would be plenty of chances for that later.
Dane wasn’t permitted to actually enter Council Hall, but he’d learned ways to push the limitations and stay informed. As an outsider, eavesdropping from the Safe House sometimes seemed the only way to stay in control of anything around here. A trusted friend had taught him that.
Stuffing his feet into his boots, he searched for his hat. “They’re discussing vital topics today that could affect my sister. I don’t want to miss it.”
She sat up from the bed with interest in her eyes. “Will they discuss the witch?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care what they decide to do with that wicked girl. My only concern is Cybil.”
“Is she wicked, though?” Maggie wondered aloud. “They say Brother Jonas burnt down her house first—killed her aunt.”
Dane rolled his eyes. “She’s evil.”
Too many nights had passed when he’d visited his sister Cybil’s cell only to have that horrid witch chatter on and on about what she planned to do to all of them. Well, Dane wasn’t like the rest of them, so he didn’t appreciate being lumped into her revenge schemes.
The witch’s taunting became so irritating he eventually asked the bishop to move her cell. Now, at least, she was far enough away that he didn’t have to look at her when he visited Cybil each night.
Maggie’s soft pink smile twisted with intrigue. “I think she’s a concubine to the elders.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He brushed a quick kiss on her cheek. “I have to run.”
“Will I see you tonight?” she called, as he rushed down the loft ladder. “I’m making stew. I can bring you leftovers.”
He paused at the door of the barn, considering the day. Tonight dinner was at Cain and Destiny’s, which meant Gracie would definitely be there. “I can’t tonight.”
Her head poked out from the opening of the loft. Even from far above he could read her disappointment. “Let me guess, supper with the Hartzlers?”
Despite the frail lineage shown in his bloodlines, the Hartzlers were the closest thing to family he had left. If not for Cain bringing them to the farm, he’d probably be homeless and Cybil would have been sent off to live in foster care under the eyes of the state.
But she would be alive.
He shoved the chilling regret away, refusing to admit his sister’s life was over, even though everyone else on the farm seemed to whisper as much.
He didn’t dwell on alternate realities like that. What was once a fear now sounded like a great comfort, after the hell he and his sister had lived through. Maybe Cybil would have been bullied or even cried herself to sleep for a few months in foster care, but she would have adjusted to that sort of life, just as he’d adjusted to life on an Amish farm.
Now, she had no life. Just an endless existence caged in a one-room cell with a dirt floor. Next to the monster that started it all.
“I have to go,” he said, rushing out the door.
Dane’s sole purpose, aside from watching over his sister and ensuring no harm came to her, whittled down to seeing that monster destroyed. Isaiah Hartzler was an abomination, a feral, vicious, dangerous behemoth beast that needed to be put down. It wasn’t enough to simply kill him. Dane wanted to see him suffer. He wanted to stand by and watch as maggots ate away his eyes and fire burned away his skin.
The fucking vampire was immortal, of course, so any damage would eventually repair, but that was fine. Dane was more concerned with his suffering anyway. He wanted—no, needed—Isaiah to suffer for his crimes—again and again and again until the son of a bitch begged for death.
But he deserved no mercy. Just as Isaiah had shown his mother and countless other innocent women none.
Emerald fields dappled the distance like a patchwork quilt as hand-drawn tills stood forgotten, the earth and soil of rotation fields only partially churned for the next season while other fields bloomed with life as they approached the repetitive harvest. Seasons echoed and marked the passing of time here like a clock bell.
The consistent cycle could be a comfort as much as an annoyance. He sometimes missed the days when he would wake up and grab his phone, check the time, and see what trouble his friends got into overnight. They all assumed he was a dead runaway by now, so the temptation of going back to a place where he’d once had friends was no more promising than chasing a sky full of clouds. It was a fantasy he’d never touch.