Second Hand Kindles Novels & Stories

Whatever came next, they'd be moving forward with one Key permanently spent, guarding whatever the mechanism protected, rather than carried in a pocket like the others might be. Small. Deliberate. Exactly large enough for what waited inside. A stone pedestal, no taller than Elara's knee, stood at the center of the compartment. Resting on it, catching the thin moonlight through the broken glass above, sat a second disc, pale where the first had been black, carved with the same intricate symbols, radiating a faint, cool light that seemed to breathe in slow, steady pulses. The Second Key. Exactly where Jonathan had promised it would be.

Only one possibility remained. I typed in Lilith's birthday. As soon as I pressed Enter, the folder unlocked.

His eyes—steady, deep brown, and profoundly familiar—swept past me, then snapped back. The recognition was immediate, but his reaction was carefully controlled. There was no mockery, no venom, just a sudden, faint tightening around his mouth, a flash of something unreadable—was it pain? Disappointment?—before his face became a perfect, unmoving mask of professional neutrality. He treated me the way you would treat a priceless, but severely cracked, antique vase: with immense caution and distance. "Ms. Jamie?" Mr. Sanford’s deep voice cut through my paralysis. "Is the yuzu glaze homemade?"

It was in the man’s balls. The man thrashes in the chair as a burnt hole forms around the area on his pants. Melina cries more, imagining how much it must have hurt. Thomas takes his lighter and puts it at the man’s fingertips. Melina screams along with the man as Thomas burns all of his fingers.

An esoteric outline of a well-built figure ensconced in the swivel chair could be seen in the dark room. The only source of light illuminating the room was emanating through the white screen hung on the opposite wall. His upper body was draped in a black shirt, with three of his top buttons undone revealing his clean-toned chest. The shirt was folded to his elbows revealing his tattooed veiny hands. His ring-cladded fingers were coiled around the glass as he took casual sips of alcohol. Leaning his head on the headrest, he removed the glass from his lips only to snuff the cigar that he was holding in his right hand.

Let's see who she chooses now—you and your kid, or her own skin. That bracelet had been on my wrist for years. Plain silver, unremarkable. Anne had given it to me on our first anniversary. She'd said she got it from some boutique that specialized in handmade wellness jewelry—a lucky charm to keep me healthy and protected.