old, but she is a little weird, and I like that.” The face distorted by anger, surrounded by a wild mane of salt-and-pepper hair, the mouth shouting in fury, popped into Reed’s head. She forced the image away.
“That’s because you’re weird, too,” Debrah said, glancing pointedly at Reed’s black skirt, shirt, and boots. “Where are you getting your wardrobe these days, Vampira?”
Decker, sprawled on the floor with his backpack supporting his head, said, “You’re nuts working for her. Carl Nordstrum was a friend of mine. And look what happened to him.”
“We don’t know that anything happened to him,” Reed replied calmly. “Maybe he just left school.”
Decker shook his head. “Not Carl. He was a lot more interested in getting an education than anyone I know. He’s the one who nagged me into finishing papers and studying for exams. He left for work at that writer’s house one morning and that was the last time anybody saw him. How do you explain that?”
“He just left school, that’s all.” But the words of the clerk in the administration building rang in Reed’s ears: “Carl Nordstrum wasn’t the type to just up and leave a job.” Reed shook her head to banish the voice and added, “If Carl worked as hard as you say he did, he probably got overloaded. Just got in his car one day and took off. It happens. If anything sinister had happened to him, the police would know, right?”
“Not if someone didn’t want them to. Someone really clever. Like psychopathically clever, for instance. And as far as I’m concerned,” Decker rolled over on his side and grabbed a handful of cheese balls from the bowl in Debrah’s lap, “the best candidate is someone who writes psychopathically clever novels like that stuff McCoy writes.”
“Oh, Decker,” Lilith said, laughing, “you’ve never even opened a McCoy book. You don’t know the first thing about them.”
“I know what I’ve heard,” Decker retorted, popping a cheese ball into his mouth. “And all I can say is, Reed is as crazy as McCoy probably is, to go to work there. So if anything happens to you, Reed, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I consider myself warned,” Reed said. “But if anything happened to me, I wouldn’t be around to say you didn’t warn me. Thanks, anyway, Decker. Big of you.”
Her voice was calm, but her emotions weren’t. Carl had last been seen on his way to McCoy’s. That news should be worrying her. But it wasn’t.
Instead, she felt … excited.
Was this a little bit of the dark side about which McCoy wrote so well? Was it a place where someone like McCoy lived? Did the darker side excite the author as it excited Reed now?
Reed shivered. Maybe all writers were a little unbalanced. Maybe that’s what made their creative juices flow. After all, if McCoy were ordinary, she couldn’t write extraordinary books, could she?
If she was going to work for a writer, she’d just have to get used to mood swings, that was all. And stay out of desk drawers.
By the time everyone had gone and Reed had crawled into bed, she was exhausted, and asleep in five minutes.
It was so dark, she couldn’t see her own hands. She knew they were there because she could feel the dirt beneath her fingers, but even the bright emerald ring with its brilliant gold band had disappeared into the thick, velvety curtain of blackness surrounding her.
And the silence was as thick as the blackness. The only sound was her own labored breathing, in and out, in and out, a tiny bellows bouncing off the walls of the deep, dark, cold pit.
She was so thirsty. And so cold.
When she raised her head, she could see, so high above her, a glow of light at the mouth of the pit. On its edges, sitting in a circle, were a dozen vultures, their bright, beady eyes fastened on her, their ugly wattles blowing slightly in the night breeze.
As she watched, hugging her arms around her for warmth, one of the ugly birds moved cl oser to the edge of
“That’s because you’re weird, too,” Debrah said, glancing pointedly at Reed’s black skirt, shirt, and boots. “Where are you getting your wardrobe these days, Vampira?”
Decker, sprawled on the floor with his backpack supporting his head, said, “You’re nuts working for her. Carl Nordstrum was a friend of mine. And look what happened to him.”
“We don’t know that anything happened to him,” Reed replied calmly. “Maybe he just left school.”
Decker shook his head. “Not Carl. He was a lot more interested in getting an education than anyone I know. He’s the one who nagged me into finishing papers and studying for exams. He left for work at that writer’s house one morning and that was the last time anybody saw him. How do you explain that?”
“He just left school, that’s all.” But the words of the clerk in the administration building rang in Reed’s ears: “Carl Nordstrum wasn’t the type to just up and leave a job.” Reed shook her head to banish the voice and added, “If Carl worked as hard as you say he did, he probably got overloaded. Just got in his car one day and took off. It happens. If anything sinister had happened to him, the police would know, right?”
“Not if someone didn’t want them to. Someone really clever. Like psychopathically clever, for instance. And as far as I’m concerned,” Decker rolled over on his side and grabbed a handful of cheese balls from the bowl in Debrah’s lap, “the best candidate is someone who writes psychopathically clever novels like that stuff McCoy writes.”
“Oh, Decker,” Lilith said, laughing, “you’ve never even opened a McCoy book. You don’t know the first thing about them.”
“I know what I’ve heard,” Decker retorted, popping a cheese ball into his mouth. “And all I can say is, Reed is as crazy as McCoy probably is, to go to work there. So if anything happens to you, Reed, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I consider myself warned,” Reed said. “But if anything happened to me, I wouldn’t be around to say you didn’t warn me. Thanks, anyway, Decker. Big of you.”
Her voice was calm, but her emotions weren’t. Carl had last been seen on his way to McCoy’s. That news should be worrying her. But it wasn’t.
Instead, she felt … excited.
Was this a little bit of the dark side about which McCoy wrote so well? Was it a place where someone like McCoy lived? Did the darker side excite the author as it excited Reed now?
Reed shivered. Maybe all writers were a little unbalanced. Maybe that’s what made their creative juices flow. After all, if McCoy were ordinary, she couldn’t write extraordinary books, could she?
If she was going to work for a writer, she’d just have to get used to mood swings, that was all. And stay out of desk drawers.
By the time everyone had gone and Reed had crawled into bed, she was exhausted, and asleep in five minutes.
It was so dark, she couldn’t see her own hands. She knew they were there because she could feel the dirt beneath her fingers, but even the bright emerald ring with its brilliant gold band had disappeared into the thick, velvety curtain of blackness surrounding her.
And the silence was as thick as the blackness. The only sound was her own labored breathing, in and out, in and out, a tiny bellows bouncing off the walls of the deep, dark, cold pit.
She was so thirsty. And so cold.
When she raised her head, she could see, so high above her, a glow of light at the mouth of the pit. On its edges, sitting in a circle, were a dozen vultures, their bright, beady eyes fastened on her, their ugly wattles blowing slightly in the night breeze.
As she watched, hugging her arms around her for warmth, one of the ugly birds moved cl oser to the edge of
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