Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“Let go,” she whispered. “You let go… right now.”
Instead of releasing her grip, her arm moved on its own, slowly retracting to reveal what was in her hand.
It was not a switchblade.
The tool was about five inches long, with an end like a melon baller. A lys. An ancient artifact that was used to remove the eyes of the dead.
Or the living that was soon to be dead.
Xhex’s heart began to skip beats. The old weapons weren’t seen much anymore, but she was well familiar with them.
And this one had blood on it. That was dried, but still red.
Lungs burning, she dropped the length with horror on the desk next to the light-show laptop, and the way it clanged made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“Calm down… fucking calm… down…—”
In slow motion, she watched from a distance as she reached out and pulled open the thin drawer underneath the desktop. The key that she didn’t want to use was in the way back, on the right, behind blank envelopes that would never be put in the mail, brochures from the furniture company they’d used to kit out the VIP section with booths, and miscellaneous scissors, paper clips, and pens that were running low on ink, but not completely out.
A copper key.
Her feet gave herself a quarter turn on the chair’s rollers. There was a set of drawers off to the side, and the one on the left on the bottom had a tarnished circle under the stainless handle.
The trembling was bad as she went to put the key in its slot, and it was a while before the copper found home.
The lock turned easily.
Xhex pulled the drawer out a little, and the darkness that was revealed was an abyss that had no end.
A little farther out.
A little more.
Come on, she told herself. There was nothing in there, just an empty gray interior to match the cheap exterior—
The lidded glass jar was all the way in the back, not making an appearance until there was no more left to pull.
And for a moment—for a split second—Xhex thought there were marbles in the squat, transparent container. Big ones. Aggies—
Gagging, she wrenched away and pulled the wastepaper basket over.
The dinner that Fritz and his staff had pulled together with such gourmet aplomb came up quick. After that… there was only dry heaving.
The eyes have it, the voice in her head said.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Squeamish? Really? You were the one who wanted to start a collection. Come to think of it, you have something to add to it, don’t you.
As she straightened and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, the argument between patrons was still going on outside her door, but fuck that. She had bigger problems—and they were just about to go nuclear.
With a sense of dread, she reached into the left pocket of her jacket—which she hadn’t been aware of having on.
The bundle she took out was fit-in-the-palm size, a red bandana loosely wrapped around something that didn’t weigh much.
She told herself to just throw it away. And not under her desk. She needed to go to the dumpster behind the staff entrance. Or maybe head a couple of blocks down to an alley—
The bandana unwrapped itself.
And inside… a pair of baby blues.
THIRTEEN
SOMETIMES ALL YOU could do for someone was just be with them. Yes, you wanted to do some heavy lifting with your conversation, make sweeping declarations that framed suffering in a way that made it more bearable. Or maybe you wanted to try a little A-level distraction by telling hot gossip or reliving shared memories. Dumb memes. Recipes.
Sports.
As Lydia sat next to C.P. Phalen’s cumulous cloud of a bed, she was drawing blanks on everything. The inspirational stuff. The pseudo-psychology. Definitely the gossip, because she had none, because she knew nobody. She also was never on the Internet and she didn’t cook, and sportsball season started when?
And as for any in-common things? Professionally, there was no crossover between the pair of them anymore. Back during the Wolf Study Project era, C.P. Phalen had been the chair of the board, and Lydia, as a biologist specializing in wolf populations, had had some contact with the woman. But the nonprofit had shut down months ago.
Which was what had to happen after the executive director and the head vet died in the process of playing on the dark side of science and money.
On the personal level? Given everything that was going on for C.P., who needed to talk about Daniel’s latest bad-news PET scan.
“Thank you,” C.P. murmured.
Lydia jerked to attention. “For what?”
“Just being here.”
“I’ve been feeling useless about so much. But the idea I could be any kind of comfort to you helps me.”
“Silence can be therapeutic. When you’re in good company.” C.P. shrugged awkwardly. Then pulled the fleece into her lap, up to her nose. “I tell myself I can still smell him. I wish I had your nose.”