Read Online Wicked Prayer by Norman Partridge - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Norman Partridge
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that night, Dan Cody died.
The wind tore at Kyra’s crimson-black hair, whipping it against her face like a lash, but she didn’t care. She leaned through the Merc’s open passenger-side window, staring at the receding ribbon of highway with a smoking gun clutched in her hand.
In the distance, a wounded bird writhed in pain. Kyra saw it there on the blacktop—just for a second—black and bloody in the glow of a grapefruit moon . . . and then the bird was taken by darkness.
Kyra grinned, cold wind ripping through her tangled hair as she leaned backward out the window, eyes turned to the hungry black sky overhead.
A lot of stars up there. A lot of sky. The heavens, that was what some people called it, and that made Kyra Damon laugh. Because, at the moment, she felt as if every inch of that marvelous star- spattered eternity was her own black domain.
Moonlight glinted on the chrome link necklace looped thirteen times around Kyra’s neck. Satisfied, she pulled her head inside the Merc and dropped the .357. The gun made a solid, satisfying thunk as it hit the floorboards.
Johnny Church snatched up the resin-encased scorpion he’d taken from the trading post, used it to beat a voodoo rhythm on the dashboard. “Man,” he said. “Did you see those feathers fly?”
“Kyra’s quite the sharpshooter,” said Raymondo. “I’ll admit that. But the hexed bullets didn’t hurt.”
“Dead man’s tears,” Kyra said. “I only needed a few.” She smiled at the shrunken head, and one last teardrop rolled down its cheek. “Thanks, Raymondo. I’m glad you decided to join the team.”
“Anything for you. Besides, it’s your way or the highway, as our feathered friend just learned.”
“Do you think the Crow’s really dead?” Kyra asked. “Think we finished him this time?”
“Better believe it, sweet thing,” Johnny said. “That bird’s road pate.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Raymondo cautioned. “It might look like pate to you, but I say all we did was buy a little time between appetizers. Believe me—Crow isn’t off the menu yet. ”
“Are you serious, Raymondo? Kyra blew a hole right through that little fucker. Separated his wing-bone from his reanimation-bone.”
“Trust me on this one, Johnnyboy.”
“Man, if I'd known that, I would have stopped the damn car and backed over the bird a few times. Made damn sure it was dead.”
Kyra sucked a sharp clean breath between her teeth, held it a moment, then released it. “There’s more to it than that, Johnny. A lot more.”
“Then what are we gonna do? How are we gonna get rid of the bodies? How are we gonna keep the Crow from peckin’ the fucking life back into them?”
“I’ve got a few ideas,” Raymondo said.
The shrunken head sketched it out for them. Kyra listened to Raymondo’s dry little voice, found music there, and elsewhere. In the purr of the Mercury’s well-tuned engine, in the hushed whisper of whitewall tires on a lonely desert highway.
The wind rushed through the open window, and Kyra closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the rich smell of sage and pinon filling her lungs like a dusty perfume. She knew Raymondo was right. The Crow wouldn’t surrender so easily. Kyra could almost see the bird back there on the road, knitting itself together, sinew by sinew, muscle by muscle, feather by feather.
The wing-bone connecting to the reanimation-bone.
Kyra wasn’t sure where it would all lead. Anxiety gripped her— perhaps a systemic effect of the scorpion attack, perhaps not.
Perhaps it was only fear she felt.
And perhaps that fear was well-placed.
Kyra’s fingers drifted to her cheeks, drifted over the welts left by the arachnids’ lashing telsons. Their barbed tails had done her damage, spell of protection or not. That damage was not as severe as it might have been, and the lingering reminders that she bore on her flesh would fade soon enough, but it was the venom that burned beneath her wounds that concerned her
The wind tore at Kyra’s crimson-black hair, whipping it against her face like a lash, but she didn’t care. She leaned through the Merc’s open passenger-side window, staring at the receding ribbon of highway with a smoking gun clutched in her hand.
In the distance, a wounded bird writhed in pain. Kyra saw it there on the blacktop—just for a second—black and bloody in the glow of a grapefruit moon . . . and then the bird was taken by darkness.
Kyra grinned, cold wind ripping through her tangled hair as she leaned backward out the window, eyes turned to the hungry black sky overhead.
A lot of stars up there. A lot of sky. The heavens, that was what some people called it, and that made Kyra Damon laugh. Because, at the moment, she felt as if every inch of that marvelous star- spattered eternity was her own black domain.
Moonlight glinted on the chrome link necklace looped thirteen times around Kyra’s neck. Satisfied, she pulled her head inside the Merc and dropped the .357. The gun made a solid, satisfying thunk as it hit the floorboards.
Johnny Church snatched up the resin-encased scorpion he’d taken from the trading post, used it to beat a voodoo rhythm on the dashboard. “Man,” he said. “Did you see those feathers fly?”
“Kyra’s quite the sharpshooter,” said Raymondo. “I’ll admit that. But the hexed bullets didn’t hurt.”
“Dead man’s tears,” Kyra said. “I only needed a few.” She smiled at the shrunken head, and one last teardrop rolled down its cheek. “Thanks, Raymondo. I’m glad you decided to join the team.”
“Anything for you. Besides, it’s your way or the highway, as our feathered friend just learned.”
“Do you think the Crow’s really dead?” Kyra asked. “Think we finished him this time?”
“Better believe it, sweet thing,” Johnny said. “That bird’s road pate.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Raymondo cautioned. “It might look like pate to you, but I say all we did was buy a little time between appetizers. Believe me—Crow isn’t off the menu yet. ”
“Are you serious, Raymondo? Kyra blew a hole right through that little fucker. Separated his wing-bone from his reanimation-bone.”
“Trust me on this one, Johnnyboy.”
“Man, if I'd known that, I would have stopped the damn car and backed over the bird a few times. Made damn sure it was dead.”
Kyra sucked a sharp clean breath between her teeth, held it a moment, then released it. “There’s more to it than that, Johnny. A lot more.”
“Then what are we gonna do? How are we gonna get rid of the bodies? How are we gonna keep the Crow from peckin’ the fucking life back into them?”
“I’ve got a few ideas,” Raymondo said.
The shrunken head sketched it out for them. Kyra listened to Raymondo’s dry little voice, found music there, and elsewhere. In the purr of the Mercury’s well-tuned engine, in the hushed whisper of whitewall tires on a lonely desert highway.
The wind rushed through the open window, and Kyra closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, the rich smell of sage and pinon filling her lungs like a dusty perfume. She knew Raymondo was right. The Crow wouldn’t surrender so easily. Kyra could almost see the bird back there on the road, knitting itself together, sinew by sinew, muscle by muscle, feather by feather.
The wing-bone connecting to the reanimation-bone.
Kyra wasn’t sure where it would all lead. Anxiety gripped her— perhaps a systemic effect of the scorpion attack, perhaps not.
Perhaps it was only fear she felt.
And perhaps that fear was well-placed.
Kyra’s fingers drifted to her cheeks, drifted over the welts left by the arachnids’ lashing telsons. Their barbed tails had done her damage, spell of protection or not. That damage was not as severe as it might have been, and the lingering reminders that she bore on her flesh would fade soon enough, but it was the venom that burned beneath her wounds that concerned her
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