Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
“I knew I could count on you,” Nathan says, and claps Daniel on the back. To me, he says, “Daniel is one of my oldest, most loyal friends.”
“And I still don’t know a damn thing about him,” Daniel adds.
That makes two of us. Although, at least now, I know about the watercolors.
“So, what do you say?” Nathan asks, almost giddy. “Would you like to go on an adventure?”
I’m not sure I have much of a choice.
CHAPTER 58
It’s so late it’s beginning to qualify as early when we leave Wyrding House, and we sneak out like grounded teenagers. We’re definitely not dressed with a royal vibe; I’ve got on an impossibly short, super clingy long-sleeve mini-dress in an obnoxious lime and fluorescent yellow print, and Nathan is wearing gray track pants, a plain black tee shirt, and a black denim jacket with a gray hood.
“You look like an undercover cop,” I whisper, leaning on him so I don’t fall off my ridiculous Lucite heels. My ponytail is so high and tight I feel like my scalp is going to pop off, and I’m fairly certain I can feel the night air on my butt cheeks.
When I slide into the leather passenger seat of the waiting car, I whoop with shock at the cold.
“And you look like you belong on a sleazy reality dating show,” he quips back. “At least one of us will fit in.”
Nathan pulls away from the curb and doesn’t turn the car’s lights on until we’re a few streets away from the square.
“Is this dangerous?” I ask, casting a glance over my shoulder. “Like, are we doing life-or-death stuff here?”
“I don’t think so.” It’s not the super definite answer I wanted, but Nathan goes on, “Werewolves, as a rule, don’t get tangled up with magicians. We don’t need to; we have the thralls. But there’s animosity between the thralls and outside magic users and that’s what we need to worry about.”
“Especially since we’re looking for proof of something they did to us,” I say, so Nathan knows I get what he’s talking about.
“Exactly.”
“So, you know the way to this place?” I ask, and he reaches over to the media console and hits a button.
“No, but Daniel does.” Nathan presses the button for the GPS and he’s right; it’s taking us exactly where we need to go.
Where we need to go is a seedy looking building in Brixton with a logo that mimics the signs for the subway system, but in black and white. Fluorescent green letters in a spray paint font declare “The Underground” is the name of the club.
“This isn’t exactly my type of place,” Nathan says as we cross the street. We ditched the car on a different road, just to be safe, and took some questionable shortcuts to get here. “Is there a particular etiquette I should follow or…”
“Did you get the impression I was hanging out in a lot of dodgy bars?” I snap. “Keep your voice down and look less judgmental. Pretend you know what you’re doing.”
“I do know what we’re doing,” he says confidently. He holds my hand as we approach the bouncer at the door. He’s a tall white dude with freckles on his bald head and a body that can only be described as “truck-like”. Nathan barely slows his step as he passes the guy, tossing, “I’m off to the see the wizard,” over his shoulder and the bouncer doesn’t bother to stop us. He turns his attention back to the sidewalk as we enter the club.
That’s the secret password?
My shoes instantly stick to the floor.
“Oh, gross,” I mutter, hanging onto Nathan’s arm as we wind through the sweaty, strung-out party crowd. The music is loud, the lights are flashy, and artificial fog mingles with the obvious scent of a banned substance.
I’ve been in a place like this approximately once in my entire life. I didn’t like it then, and that place was a lot less grimy.
“How will we know who we’re looking for?” I raise my voice to be heard over the music, but I can barely hear myself.
“I think it will be fairly obvious.” Nathan’s jaw is tight as he nods toward the bar. There’s a man holding court there in a group of women dressed not so differently from me, so I can’t exactly judge them. But the guy is wearing a tropical print shirt, totally unbuttoned, and baggy khaki shorts. Atop his head is a party store wizard hat.
“That can’t be,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “That is not the super powerful magician.”
Despite the fact that the guy is wearing sunglasses in a dark club, I can feel his gaze when it lands on us. He takes the glasses off and puts them in the pocket of his shirt before he motions the women away and approaches us. There’s a ruddy tan on his caucasian skin that suggests a recent vacation, and his sun-touched brown hair is cut short and styled to look like he didn’t style it at all.