Legend drags both hands down his face, shaking his head.He looks older than he ever has, tired, furious, undone in a way only Hell, Kentucky can do to a man.
“Goddamn it, Royal.”
“Yeah,” I say again.
He grips the glitter scrap so tight his hands quake.
“What about Becki?”I ask.
His eyes flick up.Hard.Commanding.“She stays locked up.”
“She’s useful.”
“She’s unpredictable.”
“She’s alive,” I say quietly.“And if she’s telling the truth?She’s a target.”
Legend steps close, boots scuffing.“You keep her contained.You keep her quiet.And you keep your fucking hands off her.You’re too close already.”
My pulse spikes.
He sees it.
His expression sharpens.“Yeah.I know.”
I don’t deny it.
Legend pockets the glitter fabric and heads for the door.Before he leaves, he glances back over his shoulder.
“If she got out once, she’ll try again,” he warns.
“She won’t,” I growl.
“She will,” he counters.“Because she’s a Crowley.And because she knows you’ll come running.”
The door slams behind him.
And I’m left in a room that suddenly feels too small, too hot, too full of Becki’s shadow.
Chapter 17
Legend
The Reverend meets me on the front steps of Pearly Gates like he’s been expecting the devil himself.Arms crossed over his chest, face carved in stone, that smug self-satisfied smirk hanging under his scruff like a snake coiled behind his teeth.
The steeple casts a long shadow across the gravel, swallowing half the yard in darkness even though the sun is barely touching the sky.
He looks like God’s chosen from far away.
Up close, he’s rot in a pressed shirt.
“I thought we were done with these little visits,” he says, skipping the greeting like I don’t deserve human courtesy.
I stop at the bottom step, boots grinding into the gravel.“We’re not.Not until I get answers.”
He exhales like he’s bored.“And what do you think you’re owed this time, son?”
“I ain’t your son.”The words come out low, sharp.“Six girls are gone.All tied to this church.All tied to your flock.And somehow you’ve got the balls to act like the pattern ain’t pointing to you.”
