Of Flesh & Bone (Tenebris: An Occult Romance Book 2) by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

Author:Kathryn Ann Kingsley [Kingsley, Kathryn Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kathryn Ann Kingsley
Published: 2022-07-11T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tick.

Patrick hated stairs.

There weren’t a lot of things he hated in the world. Even the people he fought against, he didn’t hate. He pitied them more than anything else. They were led to think their way of living was the only path forward and could simply not see their way out of the darkness. He didn’t hate mosquitos or bees; they were simply doing their jobs. He didn’t hate the greedy or the cruel, as nobody ever woke up in the morning deciding to be the villain of their own life story—they believed that climbing the ladder was their only choice.

Tick.

But stairs.

Stairs, he despised.

Leaning against one of the steel beams of the inside of the clock tower atop the Customs House, he wheezed. His heart was racing so fast he could barely see straight, and his lungs burned.

He had to place his hands on his knees and double over, afraid he would faint. He had to stop several times on the way up. He was in good shape. Hells, he was in great shape.

Tick.

Someone chuckled. “Not an agility man, are ya?”

He shot a narrow look at the owner of the voice. At least the Host wasn’t shooting at him…yet. At least he had that much of a sense of fair play. Patrick coughed, took a deep breath, and forced himself to stand up straight. At least the room wasn’t spinning this time. “No.”

The Host—Yuriel—laughed. The light caught his metallic eyes. One gold, one silver. It made his unique condition rather obvious. With a shake of his head, the Host walked away. He headed over to a set of wrought iron stairs that led to a catwalk behind the enormous cast iron mechanism that drove the clock. It was the source of the deafening tick, tick, tick, that resonated through the room each time the gear moved a slot.

He hated it. He hated it almost as much as he hated the stairs. No, maybe they were tied. Though he despised the resonant tick, tick, tick for very different reasons. Reasons that churned his stomach. Patrick hated the ticks of clocks. He never had one in his office.

The sound haunted his nightmares.

The Host sat on the stairs and fished through his oilskin coat. Plucking out a bag of tobacco and a stack of papers, he began to roll himself a cigarette. “Want one?”

“No, thank you.” Patrick could finally breathe without wheezing. “Quit years ago.”

“Good for you.” The Host licked the side of the paper and sealed it shut before tucking the cigarette between his lips. “I don’t know if Elliot smoked. I don’t think he did. At least not tobacco. Strikes me as more of an opium man. Or at least that’s what the withdrawal told me.” He chuckled. “Poor little bastard, wasn’t he? Hated his life.”

“That’s the impression I got.” Patrick walked over to a steel I-beam near the Host and leaned against it, watching the thin man. He carried himself like he was twice the size, like he had

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