Page 18 of Immortal Bastard

There was no need to specify who she was. Adriel read his mind and saw his deepest fantasies. What he did with Maggie and what he shared with Abigail was nothing compared to the love he felt for Grace Hartzler. From her magnificent dark hair to her dulcet laugh, she fulfilled every inch of what he deemed feminine perfection.

“Must we?” Adriel grumbled. “Bad enough I have to suffer through the self-important thoughts of every male in The Order, but do I need to suffer through your ongoing romanticized fantasies of what will never be?”

“You could just stop eavesdropping on my thoughts.”

“You know as well as I that some things cannot be controlled.”

Dane, like Adriel, often gleaned unwanted details from people’s minds, but his telepathy was limited to young, unguarded minds. Most immortals were blank to him, including the children. Despite their innocence, the young immortals on the farm only spoke and thought in Pennsylvania Dutch.

Cain once explained to him that the language barrier was another form of protection from the outside world. Children were less disciplined. Speaking Dutch created another layer of protection in case the children made youthful mistakes and spoke of their species in mixed company. Only once they were school-age and old enough to understand the importance of secrecy and consequence, did they learn to speak, read, and write in English.

Adriel grumbled. “I still recall when Christian went through puberty. He was obsessed with watching the animals rut, and I frequently found him pleasuring himself when he was supposed to be doing his chores.”

“I really wish I didn’t know that.”

“It lasted decades. I had to threaten to sew the panel of his broadfall pants shut.”

“Please stop.” He couldn’t prevent the horrifying image of Christian whacking off from blasting like a Broadway show centerstage in his head.

“Yes, it was much like that.”

He shot her a look and snapped, “Thanks, now I’m going to picture that every time I see him.”

She shrugged and returned to her needlework. “That’s because, like most twenty-something boys, your mind is filled with sin.”

A ruckus erupted from Council Hall and they both ceased whispering to better hear what was being said. Dane scowled as he tried to focus on their heavily accented words. “Who are they talking about?”

“I believe Jonas. Poor, Ezekiel. He’s been through so much.”

“Retrieve the witch!” someone yelled and the double doors of Council Hall opened.

Adriel’s gaze dropped to her needlepoint as David stepped into the hall. As soon as he spotted Dane, he scowled. “What are you doing here, boy?”

“He brought me a piece of bread. I was hungry.”

Dane quickly fished the bread out of his pocket and handed it to Adriel. David frowned.

“He shouldn’t be here. Neither should you.”

She set down her hoop and slowly stood, meeting the other immortal's challenging stare. “Careful, David. I’m your elder, and as such, you will not rebuke me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Sit down, Sister Adriel. Your son shirked his duties today so he’s not here to defend your presence. It’s indecent for a female—”

“I do not need my son to come to my defense. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Now, why don’t you run off and do your elders’ bidding before someone gets angry.”

“Willful female,” he growled and marched off to the cellar door.

Adriel sat down and handed him back the tea towel of bread. “I can’t say I’m completely distraught over the loss of his arm. If Isaiah was going to hurt someone, I suppose David was a good choice.”

Dane also disliked the smug immortal, but he didn’t think he deserved to have his arm ripped off. A stump had grown back, but the ordeal would probably scar the male for life.

Minutes later, the basement doors opened and the witch, Juniper, was hauled past them. Mouth muzzled, eyes blindfolded, and hands tied, she didn’t pose much of a threat, but the girl had done her fair share of damage.

“He looks like he could use a hand,” Adriel muttered under her breath, snickering at her own joke.

Dane watched David steer Juniper into Council Hall as she blindly dragged her feet and feebly struggled. She was a small thing and her resistance was futile.

The witch’s audible, labored breathing spoke of fear, as did her muffled outcry. Two years in a cell would humble anyone, but the rage that simmered under her surface was plain to see.

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