Blood of Zeus (Blood of Zeus #1) - Meredith Wild Page 0,60
entrancing flames…
“All right,” Jesse says softly. “Let’s hash this out, then. What exactly makes you think she’s like you?”
“She’s…intuitive.”
He cocks a brow, giving me a long beat to say more. When I’m firm about my silence, he finally says, “Intuitive. That’s it? Lots of people are intuitive, Maximus. Hell, Reg and Sarah know I’ve got the flu three days before I do.”
I struggle for words. Me. Fighting to find words. “There’s more to it than that, damn it.”
“More like how? She can read your mind?”
“No. Not that either. Not exactly.”
“Right. Just your…what? Your heart? Your soul?”
I push out a frustrated sigh. “A little of both, I guess.” Or maybe a lot of both. “The best term for it might be…hyperempathetic. She picks up on emotional vibrations from people.”
“Emotional…vibrations.”
“Right. Energy waves. Except in more detail.”
“Energy…waves.”
“Yes.”
“In what kind of detail? Can you be more specific?”
I curse under my breath. “I’m not sure why I expected you to believe this.”
But I know damn well why. A few minutes ago, the guy was talking to me about the possibility of new stars, even an undiscovered constellation. If he believes the impossible can happen with collections of helium, hydrogen, and fucking angel tears, why doesn’t he give my assertions half a chance?
“You want to break out any one-liners about the flames I saw in her eyes too?”
“Now that one, I half believe,” he replies. “I mean, spontaneous human combustion has basically been debunked by science, but this isn’t a head-to-toe occurrence where she’s concerned. Unless one counts that dress from last night…”
“I’ll thank you not to mention that dress with that smirk on your face, dickhead.” I’ve never said anything so viciously to him before—but he earned it.
“Yeah, yeah. My apologies…”
He trails off, and I look back up just in time to take in his unblinking gaze, which is focused back on the script in his hands.
“Yo. Hey,” I demand. “Earth to the North Star. The story can’t be that good.”
Jesse makes a lopsided figure-eight with his head in some bizarre cross between a nod and a shake. “It’s…that revealing,” he says. “I mean…I think…”
His voice is as strange as his demeanor. I’m glad when he spins the script around so I can read it at the correct aspect. He stabs a finger to the sheet and orders, “Start right there.”
I dip my head, making sure I’m looking at the right spot, and I start skimming through the text. “Anthony sits up, shaken from his nightmare. He looks up and jolts again. Visalia, crouched at the foot of the bed, is totally naked. Flames consume her eyes. Anthony begins to speak, but she cuts him off.
“It is time, Anthony,” Jesse continues. He leans forward and reads the dialogue from his angle. “Hell granted you life once more. This is the price of your renewal. By giving back the essence of your own life.”
There’s more of the scene left. A lot more. But the details are, in Jesse’s words, revelatory—explaining why the film version of Hell to Pay might not have ever seen the light of day. At best, the movie probably had a limited release with a hard “R” rating. But I’m fairly certain even that didn’t happen. An instinct as sure as my heartbeat is telling me the script never even got pitched to studios…that Giovani Valari’s ostracization had already begun.
Because he’d written about his truth? Could this have been about…his life?
As the impact of that thought hits, I’m rocked back in my chair once more. I slam a hand to my chest, certain half the roof must’ve fallen in on it. And then the sky with it.
“God in fucking heaven,” I grate.
“Try again, man,” Jesse mutters. “This time, the other direction.”
Chapter Nineteen
Kara
“We made our way across the sodden mess
of souls the rain beat down, and when our steps
fell on a body, they sank through emptiness.
All those illusions of being seemed to lie— ”
A student’s loud coughing interrupts him mid-sentence. Instead of finishing the stanza, he holds the place in his copy of the Comedy with his finger and clasps it closed in front of him. Others look up from their own texts and follow his slow pacing across the length of the hall.
“Indeed. All those illusions of being seemed to lie.”
He hums softly, like he’s figuring something out even though he’s the one who’s supposed to be enlightening us.
I’m fearful that’s not how this lecture is going to go. Not with the looks he’s already been shooting my way. Looks that could cut