Vicious Bonds

Vicious Bonds SHANORA WILLIAMS Contents UntitledOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineBlackwaterTenElevenTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteenSixteenVanoraSeventeenEighteenNineteenTwentyTwenty-OneTwenty-TwoTwenty-ThreeTwenty-FourTwenty-FiveTwenty-SixTwenty-SevenTwenty-EightWhisper GroveTwenty-NineThirtyThirty-OneThirty-TwoThirty-ThreeThirty-FourThirty-FiveThirty-SixThirty-SevenThirty-EightThirty-NineFortyForty-OneForty-TwoRipple HillsForty-ThreeForty-FourForty-FiveForty-SixForty-SevenReturn to BlackwaterForty-EightForty-NineFiftyFifty-OneFifty-TwoFifty-ThreeFifty-FourFifty-FiveFifty-SixFifty-SevenFifty-EightFifty-NineSixtySixty-OneSixty-TwoSixty-ThreeSixty-FourSixty-FiveSixty-SixSixty-SevenSixty-EightSixty-NineSeventySeventy-OneSeventy-TwoSeventy-ThreeSeventy-FourSeventy-FiveSeventy-SixSeventy-SevenSeventy-EightSeventy-NineEightyEighty-OneAuthor NoteAcknowledgmentsMore Books By Shanora Copyright © 2023 Shanora Williams All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission of the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author. Cover Design by Hang Le Editing By Traci Finlay Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. To anyone feeling like they don’t belong. You matter. Always. One CAZ The gun is not my enemy, it’s my friend. The coolness of the barrel pressing against my temple provides a satisfaction I can’t explain, especially when I remember all the horrors, the pain, and the violence. With this gun, I could wash away everything I no longer wish to feel—agony, loneliness, the nightmares that continuously haunt me. I’ve grown to love my gun, to care for it. To feed it. It craves the blood of my enemies and the pain of those who’ve caused me harm. It’s not evil, nor is it good, but it is a part of me, like an extra limb. I lie flat on my bed, bracing myself to give the trigger a pull with my finger. I stare up at the ceiling fan, the pointed silver blades spinning round and round, and for a fleeting moment it seems as if all the weight has been lifted. The world would be so much brighter without me in it. The sun will continue to shine, the grass will grow, flowers will bloom, and everyone will move on. More pressure to the trigger, and I squeeze my eyes shut and think this is it. I’ll leave this fucked up place and my body will turn to bone, then shrivel to dust. There’s relief in knowing my grief will be washed away—that the burdens and worries will be no more. More pressure to the trigger. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. Why do I have to deal with all this alone? My eyes pop open and I stare at the ceiling fan again when I hear a voice so soft, so angelic, that my breath catches. “What?” I whisper aloud. My breaths become ragged as I slowly pull the gun away from my head, and I wait…wait…wait for the voice to respond. To say something—anything. Just a whisper, at least, to let me know it’s there. That I’m not alone. But I don’t hear it again. Just like a feather, it floats away, right out of my grasp, drifting into the dark depths of my mind. It’s nothing but a hollow echo now, slowly fading away, despite how much I need it to stay. I sit up on the edge of the bed, place my gun down beside me, and drag my fingers Two WILLOW Never and I mean never go to a psychic when you’re already down on luck. Especially a psychic who lives on the outskirts of the city, in a little home that reminds you of a tiny witch cottage. Even if you pass by the place several times a day to get to and from work, and constantly read the big white sign pitched in her yard with the words I Can Tell Your Future in bold font. No matter how much the curiosity simmers in your throat, a quiet beckoning for you to see what that place is all about, it’s best to swallow that shit down and keep it rolling. If you don’t, you’ll end up like me, Willow Austin, a woman who was told she’d never find love. As I stand on a boat deck, my phone glued to my ear, all I can think about is what that tiny woman said. She sat at a two-top table, a sheer white cloth on top of it, and tarot cards stacked neatly. Crystals of all shapes and colors were lined up in a cardboard box, random bird feathers and patches of fur in a small, flat box beside it. I expected her to use some of the items on her table, but instead she looked at me over the frame of her thin, rectangular glasses, reached across the table, and asked for one of my hands. She studied my hand as if she’d never seen another person’s before and even sniffed it, which I found odd, but I didn’t react. “Oh, Willow,” she finally said after some time, lifting her gaze from my hand to my eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll never find love in this world.” It was strange of her to mention love because I wasn’t searching for it, nor was I rejecting it. Love was a complicated factor in my life, one I preferred not to offer after so many disappointments. I pulled my hand out of the little psychic’s small, dry grasp, dug into my purse for cash, placed it on the table, and walked to my car while biting back tears. It didn’t help that she’d told me this only two weeks after I found out my brother was missing. And maybe that’s what I deserved to hear because