Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Swoosh.
And I found myself flying across the lobby.
“Oops.” The sickly sweet voice was unfortunately familiar, and by the time I picked myself, I wasn’t at all surprised to find Roseanne’s lovely face sporting a false look of regret. “I am so sorry, Blair,” the silver-eyed witch gushed. “I didn’t see you at all.”
Yeah sure, I thought gloomily. I’d believe that when harpies crawl.
Roseanne dela Cruz had it for me since day one, and I had no idea why. Someone like her shouldn’t even have noticed someone like me.
Unlike everyone at CSI, she was a natural-born witch, a direct descendant of Hecate herself. Moreover, she held a high-level position at the CIA (that’s Council of Illusory Arts, and yes it was also the supernatural world’s version of the Central Intelligence Agency). Her attention should have been taken up by all-important issues like security on Mt. Olympus or the growing threat of demons escaping from the Underworld, and definitely with no time left to think of me as a rival in either a personal or professional capacity—-
“Gosh, I still can’t get over how tiny you are.”
And yet for some reason, it’s exactly how Roseanne seemed to think of me.
“I really do wonder what could Circe have seen in you,” the CIA agent said with a sigh.
You know how body shaming’s a huge thing in the human world? Well, in this world, it was all about one’s height. Tall was the new normal, and like how all prejudices went, I found it completely unfair. It was not my fault that immortals and supernaturals were all born five-seven and up. So really, it was their height that was unnatural, not mine.
Right?
Roseanne clucked her tongue. “You’re making quite a mess, too.” She looked meaningfully at the puddle around my feet, an unfortunate result when I had shrugged out of my blazer earlier and squeezed the water out of it.
I was still trying to think of a safe, smartass reply to Roseanne’s words when Dike, my superior in CSI, went on the PA, and her cuttingly clear voice blasted out of the speakers like a stream of ice. “Everyone has five minutes to get to their assigned meeting rooms. Anyone who doesn’t make it – find another job.”
Gaea bewitched!
It said a lot about Dike that Roseanne and I didn’t even look at each other as we raced up to the second floor and made a mad dash to our meeting rooms, Roseanne taking a right turn to get to CIA while I swerved to the left for CSI.
Dike was one of the Horae, the collective term used for Daughters of Justice (which they literally were, being offspring of Thebe), and if rumors were true, she was the most powerful among her sisters as well. Considering Dike’s bloodlines and skills in the battlefield, her appointment as head of CSI’s New England division – rather than the Mid-Atlantic or the Pacific – didn’t make any sense even to a neophyte witch like me. Silver Mist might be unique for nonhumans making up a whopping sixty-eight percent of its local population, but surely that couldn’t be it alone?
It was such an intriguing mystery that over the centuries it had become an urban legend of sorts, with theories ranging from scandalous to downright crazy. Of course, one could have simply gone up and ask Dike why as well, but since that was likely to involve dying with one’s neck being squeezed by the goddess’ bare hands, no one had ever been foolish enough to make the attempt.
Where a powerful justice-seeking goddess was concerned, some questions in this world were just better left unanswered, and it was also why everyone at the conference room shot up in their seats, backs ramrod straight, the moment Dike strode inside.
Tall, olive-skinned, broad-shouldered and with hair trimmed in a no-nonsense bob, Dike carried herself like the immortal warrior she was, her aura of strength making her all-too-normal pantsuit and leather clogs feel as intimidating as a suit of armor welded by Hephaestus himself.
“Good morning, agents. I trust you’ve all received our text alert?”
All twenty of us simply nodded, trained by Dike herself not to bother with the usual yes, ma’am / no, ma’am, which the goddess considered a mere waste of time.
And as for the text alert, it had been as to the point as you’d expect it to be, considering Dike’s preference for brevity. Zeus out of control; everyone required to report for duty A.S.A.P.
It had me leaving Panda’s in a hurry, knowing that our director wasn’t the type to use A.S.A.P. lightly. I hadn’t even any time to explain myself to Mr. Handsome, managing only a quick, profuse apology before dashing out of the diner and straight into the storm.
Tension in the air heightened up a notch as the black-haired goddess spared us the briefest of glances. “All of you seemed to have made it. Good.” That was high praise already, considering it was Dike, and the tension eased, just enough for us to slightly relax against the backs of our seats.