Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Screw the creepy crypts of human lore. Modern Draculas had Wi-Fi, nice sheets, and indoor plumbing.
He refused to think about which room Apex had chosen. Or whether the male had decided to sleep on top of one of the king-sized beds . . . or if he’d decided to strip down and get under all the duvets—
“Get going,” he said in a low voice.
Instead, he just stared at the Ford. The truck needed a bath, all kinds of snow streaks and salt grime dusting its flanks and hood and front windshield.
As he considered where he was headed, he recognized that there was a time when he would have shifted and traveled on paws to his destination, but he didn’t trust his other side anymore. A month ago, his wolf had broken out and he’d ended up back on Deer Mountain, where the clan was. He’d woken up naked in the cave he’d once called his home, the heated spring just as it had once been, the furniture he’d put in it more than forty years ago totally unchanged.
It had been the last thing he’d wanted to revisit. And then one of his cousins, who he hadn’t wanted to see, either, had shown up with questions and kindness.
Both equally unbearable.
So, yeah, when he’d merely come to next to the plow last night, he’d counted himself lucky.
Forcing himself into action, he yanked open the door—
And found the keys he hadn’t realized he’d left behind in the drink cup holder.
Hefting himself up, he thought, Well, fuck, some groundskeeper he was, not protecting the estate’s equipment. Although in his defense, no one would have been out in that storm.
On that note, not many were this far north at all this time of year.
After starting the engine, he hit reverse, and then realized the plow was still on—and keeping it on would be a waste of gas, and a pain in the neck on the highway. Getting back out, he went around and disengaged the thing, leaving it where it was, right in the way of the garage bays.
Once more with feeling.
It was not long before he was on the Northway heading south, and he made slow time, traveling the single lane of tire ruts that ran down the center of I-87. Efforts had been made to clear the snowfall in a rudimentary way, and no doubt there would be other passes by the big municipal plows as the day went on.
Maybe he should have left his plow on—
“Just shut up,” he muttered. “And also, stop thinking while you’re at it.”
Unfortunately, all he had was the highway ahead to focus on.
No music to Bluetooth—because he’d left his cell phone on the bureau by the bed on purpose. No radio—because he didn’t want to deal with what would be mostly static. No Sirius—because this was a work truck and the aristocrat who owned it might be willing to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars on the kitting out, upkeep, and human-world taxes of the old Adirondack estate.
But that monthly subscription was too much for a lowly worker.
Not that Callum cared.
In fact, he wasn’t much aware of driving, even though his hand was on the steering wheel and his right foot angled down on the accelerator—and the snow-covered peaks and forests of white-dusted pine trees were streaking by him. He couldn’t have said whether he was hot or cold, couldn’t have cared less if the heat in the cab was on or not. And not even the brightness of the sun bothered him anymore.
In his mind, he was in darkness, and not the kind that came with the night.
And shit was getting darker by the mile.
When he got to the exit he’d come for, he floated down a slippery descent, and as the stop sign at the bottom approached, he pumped the brakes and was gentle with the steering. As much as he didn’t care about his own health and safety, his destination was an obsession and ending up in a ditch on the way was not part of his plan.
Left or right? Of course, right.
He shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew the way so well.
Willow Hills Sanatorium had never left him. Not its location. Not its five stories of patient porches or its tower-like core. Not the rotten, moldy smell of the place, or the layout, or the landscape.
Six miles farther down and he hit the brakes again. Hard.
The turnoff into the unkempt property wasn’t plowed, and as high off the ground as the truck was, he didn’t want to run the risk of getting stuck on his way to the chain-link fence—assuming the thing still ran a circle around the place.
Pulling forward to get closer to the road’s snow-packed shoulder, he measured whether there was enough room for traffic to pass. The county plows, the big boys, had already gone through properly, so as long as none of those had to squeeze by, things were okay.