Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 107209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
When Lyrica finally reached Maeve and Ralstad’s home, she parked and stepped out, her boots sinking an inch into freshly shoveled snow. At least Ralstad kept his walkway clear.
Big, fat flakes drifted lazily from the sky, dotting her nose. She glanced up, marveling at the white powder swirling in the muted light. The storm had abated, though it seemed likely to snow every day. For now, the wind had granted a welcome reprieve from its blustery power.
She approached the door quietly, her breath frosting in the air, but stilled when raised voices reached her.
“I said no,” Maeve yelled, her voice sharp with defiance.
“Too fucking bad,” Ralstad bellowed in return.
A scuffle followed, punctuated by a loud clatter. Panic jolted through Lyrica. Her hand darted to her pocket, pulling out the green gun as she burst through the door.
“Stop right now, or I’ll shoot,” she shouted, her voice shaking with adrenaline. She winced immediately. Had she really just yelled a line straight out of a police procedural?
Ralstad and Maeve froze mid-action, both turning to stare at her. Maeve sat on the kitchen floor. Ralstad had his hands on what looked like a pair of fur-lined tights wrapped around Maeve’s thighs, while Maeve had one hand on his head, as if swatting him away.
“What the hell is going on here?” Lyrica demanded, fury making her hand tremble as she kept the gun raised.
Ralstad straightened, still holding the offending tights. “Get out of my house. You don’t just barge in waving a gun around.”
“Let her go,” Lyrica snapped. Her anger was a living thing now, feeding off every second of this ridiculous scene.
Ralstad’s eyes flicked to the gun in her shaking hands before he sighed and released Maeve. “It’s time for you to leave.”
“Ah, damn it, Ralstad,” Maeve said, yanking the tights off and flinging them at him. They landed square on his broad shoulder, one leg smacking him straight on the nose. “I’m not wearin’ these, so I’m not. They’re too big, and they make me look like a bloody elephant. Besides, I’m roastin’. Not in a million years will I put those atrocities on me.”
“Yes, you will wear these,” he growled, stepping between her and the gun. “If you’re going outside, you’re wearing more layers, for Pete’s sake.”
Maeve stood to her feet, fire sparking in her green eyes. “I’m with child, not chilled, and I’ll not be told otherwise, mark ye that.”
Ralstad extended the tights toward Maeve. “Yes, you’re pregnant, and you’re not going out without enough layers on. You’ll freeze.”
“I’m immortal, you daft fool,” Maeve shot back, grabbing the nearest object—a cast-iron pan.
Lyrica gasped as Maeve swung the heavy pan without hesitation, the sharp clang of metal meeting flesh echoing in the small space.
Ralstad howled, clutching his ear as he staggered back. “Damn it, woman,” he shouted. “Your arm gets stronger every year. We might as well send you off for spring training with the damn Yankees.”
“Maybe if you heeded me for once, I wouldn’t be gettin’ so much practice,” Maeve countered, her tone thunderous as she brandished the cast-iron pan like a weapon. “And you know bloody well I’m a Dodgers fan, you daft clod. Now, we’re goin’ to set some things to rights. Do you understand me?”
Ralstad blinked, keeping one hand pressed against his injured ear. He looked at Lyrica, his voice lowering. “Put down the gun. I don’t want you to hurt her.”
Lyrica gaped at him. “I wasn’t going to shoot her. I was going to shoot you.”
Ralstad paused, his gaze narrowing. “Not helping.”
Maeve crossed her arms, the pan still clutched in one hand. “Lyrica, put the gun away, will you? He’s naught but bark and no bite, so he is.”
Lyrica hesitated, then slowly tucked the gun back into her pocket. “What is going on here?”
Ralstad sighed and rubbed his ear, his shoulders broadening and his scowl darkening. “I just want her to dress warmly if she’s going outside. There’s someone out there killing people.”
“I’ve walked this earth immortal for years,” Maeve snapped.
“I don’t care,” Ralstad thundered. “You’re wearing those bloomin’ tights, or you’re not leaving this house.”
Maeve shook the pan again, and Lyrica stepped back instinctively. “I am not wearin’ them,” she declared, her tone brimming with disdain. “They look utterly ridiculous, and I’m no mere mortal woman in need of fleece. Fleece, Ralstad—have you lost your senses?”
Ralstad glared at her, his patience clearly fraying. “Then I’m not leaving this house either. We can argue all day if you want.”
Lyrica couldn’t help it—a laugh burst out of her before she could stop it. Both Ralstad and Maeve turned to glare at her. “You two are impossible,” she said, shaking her head. “But I guess I should be glad to see someone fighting about something other than murder for once.”
Ralstad grunted, still rubbing his ear, while Maeve’s lips twitched with reluctant amusement. The tension in the room eased, though Lyrica suspected this wasn’t the last round in their ongoing battle.