Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
I hurry along, keeping my head down as a few men in a corner become rowdy. Another set of men stare at me, probably wondering who I am.
When I take the left, two French doors are ahead, propped open and revealing a dark, spacious office. The office walls are covered in shelves, filled to the brim with books. A rolling ladder is perched in front of one of the shelves, and I have the urge to walk over and climb on it, just to swing around all the shelves and discover what kind of literature is in this office, but I don’t. They’re already looking at me like I have two heads. It’s best that I blend in.
Caz walks around the large wooden desk in the center and pulls back a leather chair, taking a seat. Rowan and the big Killian guy sit in wooden chairs on opposite sides of the room. Killian begins wiping his bloody knuckles with a damp towel, and Rowan places his new gun on his lap like it’s a pet, lightly stroking the metal with a cloth to remove smudges.
“Have a seat. Maeve won’t be long,” Caz says to me, gesturing to the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
I look from him to Rowan and Killian, who both cock a brow before returning to what they were doing. Their mannerisms are identical, yet they look completely different. Killian is dark skinned—darker than me—with a bald head. He’s buff and appears to be made of muscle. One of his ears is pierced with a steel hoop, a red jewel engraved into it. Rowan is strong looking in his own way. He’s not buff like Killian, but there’s something hardy about him that warns you not to cross him. His skin is paler than Caz’s, freckles peppered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His hair is a dark reddish-brown.
I move across the room, pulling a wooden chair back and sitting. My eyes drop to a stack of leatherbound books and notebooks near the corner of the desk. Three fountain pens lie in angles atop a scattered set of papers, and a brown stain in the shape of a ring is on the upper left corner of one of the papers, most likely from a cup of coffee or tea.
Behind Caz is a rusted black gas lamp, lit and flickering, and on each wall at least two to three pillar candles, offering warm glows. “Who is Maeve?” I ask after clearing my throat.
I look into Caz’s eyes as he removes the worn black gloves from his hands. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls out yet another black cigarette thing from his silver case. When he sparks it, I sigh. What I wouldn’t give to get high right now. Or maybe I’m still high and that’s why I’m imagining all of this.
“She’s our mother,” Rowan answers, and Caz cuts his eyes at him before returning them to me.
“Wait…she’s your mother and who else’s?” I ask, because I could’ve sworn Rowan said they were cousins in the car.
“She’s our mother.” Rowan gestures between himself and Killian.
“You two are brothers?” My brows lift with surprise.
“Where the hell did you find this woman, Caz?” Killian grumbles, clearly agitated by my question.
“In my forest,” Caz replies as he exhales, letting a chain of smoke spill through his full lips.
“Your forest?” Killian continues a frown. “What was she doing there? Spying?”
“No,” Caz says, and nothing more.
“Is she wearing Juniper’s clothes?” Rowan sits forward in his chair. “She looks like Juniper right now. That’s literally the weird shit Juniper would wear.”
“Rowan, please.” Caz rubs the center of his forehead.
Someone knocks on the door, and I look back to see a short, pale boy with a gray cap on his head, his hands folded in front of him.
“Mr. Harlow, sir,” the boy says, his head slightly bowed. “Maeve and Juniper have arrived.”
“Good. Send them back.”
Caz puts out his cigarette, placing it on an ashtray, and then clears his throat as he leans back in his chair. Moments later, a woman appears between the double doors of the office. For the first time, I see someone dressed in color. She’s wearing a red skirt with a color-block white and black blouse tucked into it. A red hat with black and white beads is on her head, and her hair is in tight pin curls beneath the hat, not a single hair out of place. Red rubies wrapped in gold dangle from her ears. Her heels click as she enters the office saying, “This’d better be important, Caz, or so help me…” The woman stops in the middle of the office, staring at me.
“Who’s this?” she asks, but by the way she looks at me and the way her jaw drops, it feels as if she knows exactly who I am. I feel like I should know her too, but I don’t. I’ve never seen her before.