Honkytonk Hell: A Dark and Twisted Urban Fantasy (The Broken Bard Chronicles Book 1) by eden Hudson (best book series to read TXT) 📕

“Move your hand over about an inch and try saying that with a straight face,” she said. “Yeah, that’s right, Tempie saw the hickey. Where’s his? Downstairs?”

“We didn’t—” Then either Tough’s song or the one sip of beer I’d had before Tempie took it kicked in. I sat up a little straighter. “You know what? That’s none of your business.”

“I’m your freaking twin,” she said. “I tell you everything.”

“Tell me why Kathan wants us,” I said. “Really. What does he need to command legions of fallen angels for?”

“All that crap you read and you don’t even know yet that the last battle’s coming?”

I just stared at her.

“You seriously don’t! I can’t believe this, Desty. I know more than you—me. Temperance Joanne McCormick knows more than the Great Nerd of Hannibal.” She basked in the superiority for a few seconds, then got serious. “Everybody’s got to choose a side. That loser—he’s on the wrong side. He can’t protect you. With me and Kathan, you’ll have the power to protect yourself.”

“Leave Tough out of this. You don’t know him.”

“I know he’s a man-whore. Did he tell you that?”

“He can’t talk,” I said.

“Yeah, convenient,” Tempie said.

“Whatever.” I took my beer away from her.

I leaned back in my seat and pretended to be looking around the room so I didn’t have to look at Tempie. Willow was over by the bar with Dodge. She waved at me. I tried to smile back, but it felt like more of a contortion than my face could handle at the moment.

Beside me, Tempie snorted.

“Jeez, Desty, this place is dirty. I can’t believe you like it here. I thought you hated rednecks.”

I glanced at the empty stage where Tough’s electric guitar was on its stand.

“Some of them aren’t so bad,” I said.

“This from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean this dirty bar and that durr-Chevy-kid from the girl who I rigged to win the Cherry-Poppin’ Festival lottery and she traded it away for Zit-Face Lundt.”

“His name was Farren,” I said. “And God forbid he have acne in tenth grade.”

“They make stuff for that,” Tempie said.

The Annual Precautionary Deflowering had been going on at my school ever since the year sirens drained five virgins in two months. Everyone I knew called it the Cherry-Poppin’ Festival. At the beginning of every school year, the administration paired up the boys and girls from the sophomore class, rented out the Travelodge on 61, and provided condoms, lubrication, candles, etc. for their first time. When the number of boys to girls was uneven, they drew a name from the freshmen. The year we were freshmen, Tempie had rigged it so I would be drawn and I would get paired with her boyfriend, Leif Barnhart.

“Anyway, the point is that I got you the hottest guy in school and you traded for Zit-Face because Leif was too much of a hick for you.”

The real reason I had traded for Farren was that he was in my critical reading elective and I’d had a massive crush on him. I’d reasoned that the night at the Travelodge would give me the chance to talk to him outside of class, try to gauge whether or not he liked me, too. It hadn’t, mostly because he kept calling me Tempie.

“Tough isn’t just some ignorant redneck,” I said. “I mean, he kind of acts like it when there’re lots of people around, but—”

Our whole lives, Tempie and I had been able look at each other and know exactly what the other was thinking. “Twin-brain,” Mom used to call it. The way Tempie was looking at me right then, I knew she was thinking that what I saw as this profound connection with Tough, built on mutual understanding and pain, was actually something stupid and childish. Even worse, she felt sorry for me for being so naïve.

I sat back in my chair and crossed my arms. “Ugh, I hate you sometimes.”

“Look, I’ll give you that he’s cute,” Tempie said. “But he’s a loser. And, anyway, everyone knows he’s going to die before the final battle.”

“What?”

“Kathan told me. It’s in all the prophecies. The Whitneys are the last of the Chosen Soldiers and all the prophecies say the last battle can’t start until the last of the Chosen Soldiers visits death upon his brother.”

“Don’t give me some bull you and Kathan made up about—”

“Kathan doesn’t make crap up,” Tempie said. “And you know I wouldn’t say anything like ‘visit death upon.’”

“I know.” I leaned my elbows on the table, trying to think of a way to explain. “But—”

“Ask your friend on the Witches’ Council.” Tempie said “friend” like it was ridiculous that I could make one without her.

“What the heck is your problem tonight?” I snapped.

“My problem? I’m your sister and you weren’t even going to talk to me.”

“What’s there to talk about?” I said. “We both know you ran off and left me to take care of Mom. What, should we be all best friends again?”

“Why come after me, then, if you hate me so much?” Tempie asked. “Why not just say ‘screw it’ and go off to college or whatever and get on with your life?”

I bit the inside of my cheek and glared at the tabletop. Tempie didn’t even get why I came after her. How freaking pathetic was it that that made me want to cry?

Tempie picked up my hand and squeezed when I started to pull it away.

“Hey, nerd, come on,” she said. “I love you, you know? You know I do, right?”

I nodded and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Just listen to me for a minute, okay?” she said. “That durr-Chevy-kid—he’s going to die. He won’t be around to protect you when the