Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
It’s not long before I surmise that “down” means way, way down, as the winding set of dimly lit steps seems to go on forever. I’d rift to the bottom, but I’m the curious cat who wants to know what’s between here and there, wherever there might be. The first level I pass appears to be rooms and doors, and I think, or rather assume, they lead to bedrooms. The second level is an office and den with a rustic wood and steel desk and wooden chairs. The third, a small library with cozy chairs and interesting paintings of people I’d really like to examine later.
For now, though, I push past the floor and disappear further and further into the lower half of the staircase that must extend well below sea level. After what feels like an eternity, I’m at the bottom, walking through a hallway with candlelit sconces guiding my path toward a massive, heavy-looking door.
It opens upon my approach, as if it knows me, as if it intends to invite me inside the room beyond. I don’t question the generosity of the house, assuming, of course, that it’s aiding my mission, leading me toward Micah. I step under the archway and bring a giant octagon lit by fire-breathing sconces with silver and gold artillery glinting from the walls where it hangs into view. But it’s Micah that holds my attention. It’s Micah who’s standing in the center of the ring, a blade in his hand and a look in his eyes that is pure murder.
A smart person would turn and run away.
I step past the archway, and the door shuts behind me.
The Sacred Book of Nephilim
The blade of a warrior is as sharp as his hunger for blood. The magic of a warrior is only as pure as the warrior’s soul.
Chapter thirty-five
The lights inside the octagon flicker and steady, much like my heart sputtering about in my chest, a butterfly with clipped wings. Micah still stands in the center of the room, his sword glinting with such clarity it seems as if sunshine splays against the blade, and I wonder if it will burn a path through to my heart. Perhaps that’s what the news Silas brought has told him—that there’s no option but to kill me, to sharpen his blade on my flesh and blood. And still, illogically perhaps, I’m not afraid of Micah. If my future is to die before I can become something dark and destructive, I’m quite clear on the fact that I’ll find my ending in this land, never allowed to leave. Fighting it is a worthless effort, and as my grandfather used to say, acceptance of what is already lost is sometimes the only way forward. But maybe, just maybe, if I accept this life is not for me, there will be another. If I don’t, perhaps all that will exist is dirt, or worse, the flames of Hell.
The lights are flickering again, as if responding to the rush of my adrenaline, but I crush my nerves and close the space separating me from the king of this land. I stop in front of him. Light unfurls over his strong features, the essence of his power in his male beauty and dominance stealing my breath.
His magic hums in the air, circling me, and I reach for it, sending little tentacles of myself out to touch it, and it doesn’t push back. It doesn’t hold me captive. It doesn’t threaten me. And even though Micah grips the sword snugly in his palm, even knowing one flick of his wrist could easily kill me, I stand tall and strong.
Silence pulses between us, thick and filled with implications, and it’s me that pierces the depths of the wall it creates. “I’ve said it, but I’ll say it again: I’d rather die than become like Jeremy.”
“But you’d rather live?”
“Of course I would. All living beings fight for life.”
A sword appears in my hand, and he softly commands, “Then fight.”
My disbelief and anger are a whip snapping and cracking around us, my own magic shoving his away, freeing my personal space—a show of my power, the power I’m coming to know and shelter inside. I’ve never held a sword in my hand in all my life, and he’d have me fight for my life with one now? He wants me to fight. Why? So he can feel better about killing me? That’s the kind of bullshit I will not die beneath.
I throw the sword and spellcast it away. “You want to kill me, just do it.”
“Just do it?” he challenges. “I thought you were fighting for your life and what’s right.” He starts swinging the blade with the swoosh and sway of expert experience, walking around me as he does. I whip his direction as he reaches my back, but he keeps moving. I track him until we’ve completed a full circle. And when his blade is suddenly at my throat and the sword has magically reappeared in my hand, I’m not sure if it’s me or him that’s made it happen.