Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
“Grandma. I have the entire Guild of Guardians on my side. They’re not gonna let him—”
“They don’t get a say, Syrsee. Only you get a say. And you. Will. Say. Yes.”
“But I won’t.”
She smiles again. “You’re not listening. This is done. It is known. He is going to promise you something you want very badly.”
“What, though? I don’t need anything.”
“No. You don’t. But someone you love will. So be very sure about the man you give your heart to, my love. Because he will be your downfall. He will steal your soul.”
I blink. And the room changes. And then Zusi is bursting through the door again. “Time’s up, Syrsee! Let’s go! He’s already on the move!”
I look down at my grandma. I’m holding her now. The same way that vampire was holding his feeder.
She is dying.
And so is her magic.
“You are the nightmare she has been waiting for.” These words slip past my grandma’s lips like they were a whisper left over from the illusion.
“What? What did she just say?” I look at Zusi, hoping she heard that. “Did she just say ‘nightmare?’”
But Zusi only has one thing on her mind. Getting me out of here. “We need to go now!”
Zusi grabs my arm, pulling me towards the door. But I resist, looking back at my grandma. “What did you say, Grandma?”
She has one more breath and when she takes it, she breathes out her final word. “Run.”
CHAPTER EIGHT - PAUL
It’s always about the bliss.
Zecharyet Wagner is having a very bad day.
I find him at the funeral.
He is late twenties, married—widowed now—and the goodness emanating from him is strong enough to taste. His heart is pure, and I do love the pure ones.
My own heart shriveled up and died a dozen generations ago, at least. So this goodness, along with his beauty, is his downfall.
It’s not just that I crave him, though I do. And it’s not just that I must possess him, though I will. It’s just… all of it.
He’s the one.
He is the kind of man with morals and ethics. He goes to church on Sundays and after the service he teaches his religion to the smaller children of the parish, while his wife, Jane, teaches the older ones.
They have three children of their own. Charlie, seven. Nancy, six. And the new edition, baby Susan.
They were married on Jane’s eighteenth birthday and she wasn’t even pregnant. I was there watching from the back of the church and even though it was a modest wedding—both of their families were lower-middle-class—she looked stunning. They honeymooned in the Poconos.
And when they came home, they moved into a brand-new three-bedroom house at the edge of town and started making babies immediately. Fucking every night. Sometimes twice.
To say I was enthralled is an understatement. This man of morals is a fuck monster. He takes her from behind, he takes her on top, he takes her on the bottom, he sucks her pussy and watches her masturbate.
They are like a porno. And if they were born six decades later, they would set up a webcam in their bedroom and make millions of dollars letting people watch them.
Or... probably not.
No one calls him Ryet. It is Zecharyet all the time. Even Jane adheres to this preference when she’s moaning his name during sex.
He is, quite simply, the American Dream and despite how horny he is, his belief in God is absolute.
I must possess him.
But he must choose me first.
The only way to possess a man like Zecharyet is to make sure he has no other options. To make sure that I am his saving grace.
So that’s what I did.
He does not cry at the graveside of his wife and three children. He simply stands there, stoic. I think he is mad at his God, which is delightful in and of itself. Because we have the same god and He makes me angry as well.
Ryet’s suit is too big. He’s a hard worker, a mechanic, but the only suit he owns is the one he got married in and his chest and shoulders have filled out since he was eighteen, so this one is borrowed.
There isn’t much left of his little family as far as remains go. They were burnt up in the fire, crispy and black, so all four caskets are closed.
They are small, as well. His cute wife was a mere five feet tall. A casket for a baby—oh, that baby. Even I can admit that it’s all quite sad.
He goes back to his modest home afterward. The people—and there are many—follow him. There is a party of sorts. Food is served and people start drinking even though it’s Tuesday and barely three o’clock in the afternoon.
Ryet has a fifth of Jack Daniels in his hand as he stands solemnly in the middle of his tiny living room, surrounded by pictures of his former love and offspring. He pretends to listen to his friends and family as they go on and on about the virtuous woman he was attached to and his disgustingly gorgeous children.