The Wicked in Me (Devil’s Cradle #1) Read Online Suzanne Wright

Categories Genre: Fantasy/Sci-fi, Magic, Paranormal, Romance, Witches Tags Authors: Series: Devil's Cradle Series by Suzanne Wright
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Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125083 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
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“I won’t be able to sleep until the entire cottage has been cleansed,” said Delilah, gently waving smoke into the air. “I want all the negative energy gone.”

Wynter said nothing as the woman did her thing. She knew that Delilah would cleanse every room, every corner, every cupboard, every closet door. “I’d offer to bless the thresholds of the house, but I’m guessing you beat me to it.”

“You guessed right. Hattie swept away all the cobwebs, dust, and leaves. I tell ya, that woman has more brooms than she does clothes.” A few minutes later, Delilah announced that she was done, adding, “Sweet dreams, Priestess.”

Wynter sighed. “Is there no way at all to make you stop?”

“None whatsoever.” Delilah shot her a bright smile and breezed out of the room.

Wynter simply shook her head. Though her crew drove her nuts at times, she couldn’t imagine not having them in her life. It was crazy to think that if she hadn’t been caught by a specific group of bounty hunters, she probably would never have met her crew.

Wynter switched off the light and then slid under the thick coverlet, her mind going back to the day the aforementioned hunters had nabbed her …

*

Wynter slowly began to wake as a breeze lightly whispered over her face. It was cool. Refreshing. Otherworldly. And laced with a healthy dose of you need to wake up.

Frowning weakly at the throbbing ache in her temples, Wynter licked her dry mouth. God, she felt sick as a dog. Not to mention super groggy.

And hot. Really hot.

Her monster, on the other hand, was furious.

Furious?

She forced her heavy eyelids open and found herself staring at a caged lightbulb that hung from a plain ceiling. She shifted her arms and—

Ow. Her right elbow jabbed something hard. A cement wall, she realized. One on which names, dates, and profanities had been carved.

Springs creaked as she pushed up from the thin, saggy mattress on which she’d been sprawled. Wynter felt her sensitive stomach pitch. She was gonna hurl at some point for sure.

As she took in the rest of her surroundings, her worries of vomiting took a back seat. She was in a small, cramped, dimly lit space bordered by iron bars. Aside from the bed, the only piece of furniture was the dingy metal toilet on the other side of the cell.

Yeah. A cell. She was in a goddamn cell.

And as she looked beyond it, she realized there was a whole row of them—most were empty, but not all. It wasn’t an official prison, though. It seemed more like someone had converted some sort of basement into a jail. Which would explain the lack of windows.

Since the last thing she remembered was being pursued by bounty hunters armed with tranquilizer guns, it didn’t take a genius to work out that they’d managed to snatch her. The tranqs were no doubt responsible for her headache and nausea.

An otherworldly breeze angrily swooshed around the cell but didn’t unlock the door for her. That could only mean that there was a system in place—magickal or otherwise—that would trip an alarm in the event of an escape. The deity wouldn’t trigger an alarm that would have hunters bearing down on Wynter until she’d shaken off the grogginess.

Weirdly, her connection to her magick felt weak. It was hard to verbalize, but it was sort of like when your arm went numb and you couldn’t properly move it. She suspected that she’d be able to call on her magick, but not use it fast or efficiently. Which could be due to the drugs or some kind of spell, she wasn’t sure.

Her monster shoved at her, wanting control; wanting the blood of its captors. Yeah, me too. While the deity calmed it with a mere brush of air, Wynter silently assured the entity that she’d let it have its way when the right moment came along.

She pushed off the bed. Her belly rolled so viciously she balked. Ugh.

“The drug they use is a son of a bitch, right?”

Wynter tracked the unfamiliar male voice to the cell on her left. Although the lighting was crap, she made out a good-looking guy with an unkempt mop of brown hair crouched on the hard floor. “You could say that,” she said. It didn’t help that the scents of rust, iron, sweat, and must hung in the air. Or that said air was hot, stale, and stifling.

He gestured at himself with his thumb. “The name’s Clay.”

For some reason, she wasn’t so sure she believed him. “If you say so. Is that blood you’re using?” she asked, realizing he was drawing symbols on the floor. Satanic symbols.

He held up a palm that sported a wicked slice. “Don’t worry, it’s my own.”

“You’re attempting to call on a demon?”

“Asmodeus hasn’t let me down yet.”

She didn’t know what concerned her more. That he seemed so breezy at the idea of calling on a hell-bound demon to possess him, or that he’d clearly done it before. But all she said was, “All right.”



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