Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“The thesis I present to you today, however, especially in light of the supposed hoax,” he uses air quotes for the last word, “that we all collectively witnessed with our own eyes this past month, is that some of the signs and wonders our ancient brethren witnessed were real.”
I sit up straighter in my chair and realize that I’m not the only one reacting. Some of the other professors in the room stand up and heckle him for buying into conspiracy theories. Just as many students stand up in his defense.
Finally, Professor Rossi holds his hands up, and the shouting dies down. “Is this not a university where we gather to discuss new ideas and theses?” he asks. Students eagerly nod, along with some professors. Others stare stonily ahead.
Professor Rossi leans forward, clutching the sides of the lectern as he continues, his voice intimate as he speaks into the microphone. “There were ancient powers that occasionally visited or even inhabited this world for a time during the ancient era. Ladies and gentlemen, I am suggesting that ancient man did not invent the gods but merely documented their presence among us with papyrus and ink. Just like we’re doing now capturing video on our phones of the phenomena we’re witnessing now all around us as these unknown beings visit again.”
This time, when the crowd erupts, there is no bringing back order. Factions shout and argue all around the room, and Professor Rossi has to be shuffled off the stage.
“Come on,” Phoenix whispers excitedly, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward an exit off to the side, away from the chaos. “I want you to meet him.”
Frowning, I follow her. I can’t think of anything I want less.
Chapter Six
PHEONIX
10 Years Ago
Layden stays in bed for several days, shivering underneath the covers even though there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He doesn’t seem to have a fever, though, and every time I try to talk to him, he just shakes his head and turns away. It’s as if, after so long alone, the concept of human interaction and even a warm, soft bed is too much for his mind and body.
The one thing he will accept, however, is food. I spend the days chopping up vegetables and making soup. Funny since, at home, I usually rebel against anything that overly feminizes me or that I consider woman’s work. In a compound full of kinsmen who are older than me, I fought from the beginning not to be the one left to do the housekeeping. And I’d certainly always refused to be involved in any sort of food acquisition for my family. I shudder even at the thought.
They all took care of themselves well before I got there, and nothing needed to change, even though the more cavemen-like of my “uncles” sometimes disagreed and tried to push things with me. Compulsion came in handy, and when a couple of them figured out how to fight back against my mind control, it came to proving myself in all-out combat with them. Men with hundreds of pounds on me.
But my might had never come from bulk, and I had more tricks up my sleeve than just the compulsion.
“Here,” I say, perching on Layden’s bed on day four with some fresh potato, carrot, and onion soup.
He’s facing the window, back to me, as he stirs. The stubs of the wings on his back are only small lumps against the heavy blankets as he turns over, and I wonder if they’re what makes him wince slightly as they brush against the mattress.
“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” I ask automatically, but my questions make his expression shut down even more. Unlike the first day, his eyes stay down and averted from mine.
He shies away from my touch when he struggles to sit up, and I try to help by stuffing another pillow behind him. “Don’t spill the soup,” he says.
“He speaks!” I crow, letting go of the pillow when he grabs it and rearranges it himself. At least he’s showing a little more life today than he has the past few days. When he’s settled in, I hold up a spoonful of broth to his mouth.
He refuses to open, and finally, his eyes lift to mine. I try not to pull back or react in any way, even though my stomach swoops physically at the sudden, powerful eye contact.
“Give it to me; I can feed myself. I’m strong enough.”
It’s ridiculous that his words make me sad. Feeding him has been the only intimacy he’s allowed beyond that initial day when I found him and he opened up to me a little. I don’t know why I should care. I barely know him. This is a side trip from my real life that part of me knows I’m focusing on just to help me escape the problems I ran from in the first place. Still, it hurts. And it was stupid to think there was any real connection between me and a random stranger.