Page 95 of God of War (Legacy of Gods)

Hugging myself, I rub my arms and pace the empty side street.

The area is illuminated by dimly lit lamppost, casting a shimmering hue on the wet pavement. The constant showers in the UK have left their mark, and passing cars create small waves on the road. A gust of wind blows through, and I shudder from the sudden drop in temperature.

“Ava Nash?”

I stop and turn around, slightly perplexed since no one has called me that since I woke up in the hospital.

I’m basically Mrs. King now.

“Yes?”

I observe the old woman’s haggard appearance. Deep lines etch their way around her tired eyes and thin lips, telling tales of a long life. Wispy strands of gray hair peek out from underneath a hat that has faded from its original cheerful yellow to a dull, muddy green. The fabric is worn and frayed, giving away years of use. Despite her rough appearance, there is a sense of resilience emanating from her weathered features.

And for some reason, she looks…familiar? Like a grainy picture I’ve stumbled upon in an old magazine.

But where do I recognize her from?

“Do I know you?” I repeat when she remains silent.

The woman keeps studying me with hollowed eyes, not blinking. I search my surroundings, noting the absence of cars. A chill that’s not from cold forms goosebumps on my bare arms.

“I’m sorry I don’t have cash,” I say with a smile. “I can buy you a meal if you can wait?—”

“I don’t need your money.”

I physically jerk at how uncharacteristically deep her voice is. Probably a longtime smoker.

“Then I’m at a loss as to how I can help you.” I pause. “How do you know my name?”

“You’ll pay for what you’ve done, you sewer rat. Don’t think you’ll ever get away with it when I haven’t.”

“Pardon?”

The sound of a door wrenches my attention from the strange woman. I look back to find Eli carrying my purse and phone, and even though I’m still mad at him, a crushing wave of relief washes over me at his presence.

“Eli, this lady seems to be mistaking me for someone else—” I point at thin air.

The woman who was standing in front of me has vanished.

“No…” I whisper, my heart hammering.

A plush woolen jacket falls onto my bare shoulders, cocooning me in a wave of warmth and his alluring scent.

But that doesn’t distract me from the fact that I conjured up an entire woman just now.

And not just any woman.

The familiarity hits me like an arrow between my bones.

After my parents’ conversation about my maternal grandmother, I searched all our family albums, but there was notrace of any pictures of her with Papa. So I scoured the internet. That did bring results because she was a famous horror-thriller novelist and Papa donates all her royalties to various children’s charities.

The old lady from just now seemed familiar because that’s exactly how my grandmother would look if she’d aged.

The same hollow eyes. The same frozen expression.

But I know she’s dead. She’s been dead for over thirty years.

So why the hell would I conjure up her image?

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