Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
“I’m no one’s sweetheart,” Raya cuts him off.
This is Raya, explains Tristan quickly. She accompanied me for moral support. And entertainment, I think.
Mance grunts to himself. “She don’t look much entertained to me.” He sets his eyes back onto Tristan. “Is she part of the deal? That why you brought her? To offer her to me?”
Regrettably, no, Tristan answers. She is my—
“Sister? Family?” He looks her over again. “I don’t get how you folk do this whole family thing … blood sisters and fang brothers and whatever other crazy rules you got goin’ on.” He lets out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Fuckin’ adorable.”
We have chosen family, explains Tristan, bonded by exchanges of blood with those we trust indefinitely, not by assignment of birth, which in itself is sadly a choice no mortal baby is afforded.
“If it were up to me, I’d keep all my dang blood to myself. I like it in my veins where it belongs.”
Is this family advice from someone who killed his own parents?
“You killed yours, too,” Mance fires back, “but why bother flirtin’ with each other? Our candle’s still burnin’. Time’s a’ tickin’.” He narrows his eyes. “So many other gods whose doors you could have knocked on tonight, from the Four Winds to the Sisters to Mother Nature herself. What in the hell kinda pickle did you get yourself in to wish me to call upon Death?”
A bad one, admits Tristan. So can you help me? Or shall I go with my original plan and consult a priest?
Mance smirks, amused by the joke, then pulls out a box of cigarettes, flips it open, draws one out with his mouth. “Sure can do,” he says, the cigarette bouncing between his lips as he lights it. “First things first. Who’s the unlucky fella?”
His name is Brock Hastings. He is currently in a secure location. I can bring his body to a discreet mortal clinic under our control for you to perform the, um … ‘ritual’ …? Is it called a ritual?
“Oh, I see how it is. Don’t trust me at your fancy house?”
No one is allowed in the House of Vegasyn, as you know, who are not expressly invited. Also, I regret to say I’m doing this … in secret.
That last bit of information appears the tastiest to Mance, as the corners of his lips curl up. “So your big bad Lord don’t even know you’re meetin’ with me. Things are gettin’ a hell of a lot more interesting by the second.”
I hope we can practice discretion here, as we have in the past.
“Discretion.” Mance appears to understand more than he lets on. “I think I’m startin’ to sniff out what’s really goin’ on here. You’re ass-deep in shit ‘cause someone’s gone and broken the Protected Blood thing, and you want me to save the day.”
Tristan bristles. We are hoping to save everyone’s day.
“Boy, oh, boy … if the witches hear ‘bout this …”
Hence our need for discretion.
Mance snorts. “You kiddin’? You think I’m gonna go tell someone ‘bout this? I don’t give a fuck what the witches think. I ain’t associated with a single damned one of ‘em. Not anymore. They don’t want nothin’ to do with a cursed motherfucker like me.” He grabs his nuts to adjust them, then drags his eyes quite deliberately onto Raya. Hand still groping himself, his eyes do a dance down her chest, lips curling deeper with the sorts of thoughts that are not so difficult to fathom. “And you brought this babe along with you for a reason. To sweeten my attention, I’m guessin’, since she ain’t part of your offer.”
Raya covers her chest with her hands, disgust in her eyes.
Tristan continues. My offer is money. Do you take Venmo?
“I’m gonna need a few other things first,” he says after a puff from his cigarette. His lustful eyes remain on Raya, relishing the sight of her. “You’re gonna have to get ‘em for the ritual.”
The mocking way in which Mance says the word, Tristan gathers it isn’t what he usually calls it. Condescension is to be expected, and Tristan is more than willing to swallow as much of it as is necessary, provided the man does his job. Name what you need, and I’ll procure the items. Or do you call them ingredients?
“I’ll need a gallon of goat blood.”
Tristan grimaces, nods. Very well, and?
“A mirror that’s seen the deceased before and after he died. Preferably the same, but can be separate mirrors, but then they gotta be shattered and put back together in each other’s frames. Also, bark from an oak tree that’s been struck by lightning no more than seven days ago, the younger the tree, the better. The tree can’t have been pissed on by a dog. Nullifies the power.”
The ingredients are getting more complicated, notes Tristan.
“And you ain’t writin’ a lick of this shit down. Hey, you. Sweetheart.” Mance gives Raya a wink. “How ‘bout you jot this down in a cute lil’ notebook? Bet you got one wedged in those sweet, plump tits of yours.”