Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67614 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67614 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“It is. And all I can do is try to reassure her that nothing is her fault.”
“And love her.”
Mom smiles when my gaze whips up to hers.
“You’re my only child, Giles. Do you honestly think I don’t see what’s happening between the two of you? And for the record, I’m a fan. I love Breena to the moon and back. She’s perfect for you. You’re excellently balanced, and I can’t wait to hold my grandchildren.”
“Whoa.” I laugh and hold up my hands in surrender. “You’re skipping a few steps there, Mom.”
“The sentiment is the same.” She shrugs a shoulder. “How is the tapestry coming along?”
“Well, since Breena went with Jonas into Hallows End last week, she’s been working quickly. It took her a few days to sketch out what she wants the scene to look like, but now that she has figured that out and Jonas approved it, she’s getting started with the actual weaving and stitching. I think it’s harder than any of us realizes.”
“I think you’re right,” Mom says, tapping her finger against her lips. “I’ll swing by the house on my way home to see if she needs any help. Even if that just means making her a pot of tea and something to snack on.”
“Get her to walk around a bit,” I suggest. “She’s been sitting so much her ankles have started to swell.”
Mom frowns. “That’s not healthy. I’ll see what I can do for her. I have some alfalfa caplets with me.”
“Of course, you do.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” I laugh and kiss my mother on the cheek. “Just that you’re such a kitchen witch. You carry medicinal herbs around with you everywhere you go.”
“Do you need some elderberry tincture? I have some of that with me, too.”
“No thanks.” I walk her to the door so I can lock it behind her. “Have a good day. Thanks for the donuts.”
“You’re welcome. Don’t work too hard on your day off.”
She kisses my cheek and then sets off. I close and lock the door and then return to my work in progress. Before sitting, I turn on some music so it isn’t quite so quiet. As classic Def Leppard fills the air, I get back to it.
Two hours later, with the ring finished, boxed, and ready for Mr. Boksich to pick up first thing in the morning, I turn off the music and start cleaning up my space. I’m ready to get home to Breena and see how she’s doing and also find out what I can do to help.
But after I get the ring in the safe and turn to reach for my keys, I hear footsteps above me. Goose bumps spring up all over my body.
I haven’t rented out the apartment upstairs. I don’t think I’m going to. I figured I’d use it for storage and maybe a space to fill online orders once I get that new part of my business up and running.
No one should be up there.
Blowing out a breath, I tuck my keys into my pocket, lock the shop door, set the alarm, and then climb the stairs to the apartment above.
“Hello?” I call out as I unlock the door, using the keypad. “Is someone squatting up here? That’s not cool.”
But when I walk inside the empty space, no one is there. There are no signs that anyone has been in the apartment since we moved Breena out weeks ago. It’s dusty, and I’m reminded that I should really come up and open a window now and again to air out the place.
I move to walk into the kitchen when I see a shadow figure out of the corner of my eye. When I turn toward it, it’s gone.
Well, damn.
I’m not a seer. It wasn’t until very recently that I’d ever seen a spirit for myself. Sometimes, I can hear things. And other times, I just know when something’s there, but I don’t see them.
Until all of this started with the curse and the killer.
I saw what was happening at Breena’s house.
And now, this.
I backtrack down the stairs to the shop and find a bundle of herbs, light it, and return upstairs to cleanse the space.
But when I walk inside, I see it’s fully furnished, but not with modern furniture. All the kitchen appliances are old. Something simmers on the stove, and music comes from the bedroom. I can hear the static of a record player.
“Hello?”
My stomach clenches when a little boy walks out of the bedroom holding a knife dripping with thick, red blood.
“She was bad,” he says. His eyes are black, and his voice sounds like an echo from far away. “Really bad.”
“Who was?” I ask, then watch as his face changes. Remembering the burning herbs in my hand, I begin the chant I always use when I’m cleansing a space. This isn’t real. He isn’t real. “Only love and light are welcome here.”