Read Online Wicked Prayer by Norman Partridge - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Norman Partridge
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now.
For the venom, she understood quite suddenly, was of her own making.
She could no more escape it than she could escape the Crow.
Even if she managed to destroy the black messenger, another might travel the dark highways in its wake, and another . . . the birds might trail her until white daylight was black with wings, relentless as a pack of hellhounds on her tail.
The birds had no choice.
They had to follow.
They were creatures like no others. . . .
Driven by unnamed instincts that pumped through their beating wings like black fire . . . driven by the primitive concept of tribal retribution buried deep in the base of their avian brains . . . driven by the ancient thirst for vengeance.
This drive was inherent to the ancient code, part of the Crow’s lore that had been passed on through the ages as a species-specific memory. Kyra Damon was well-versed in the details. She had to be, if she were to succeed in her mission.
To succeed, she’d have to destroy the entire Corvid clan. She knew how to do that. Knew the avenues to travel, the precautions to take.
For once, near death, Kyra Damon had glimpsed the realm of the Crow.
And, like no one else who had ever walked this earth, she had lived to tell the tale.
Kyra winced, strangling on the memory, her breath trapped in her chest. The Crow had caused her great pain, pain she could never forget. But remembering that pain was just as dangerous, for memory made the pain much too real, and suddenly Kyra’s chrome necklace seemed much too tight, its thirteen loops encircling her throat like a hangman’s noose—
Kyra exhaled sharply, drew a deep breath of clean desert air.
Her hand went to her throat, and the pulse beat she found there was wild and alive.
Johnny, ever attentive, turned his eyes from the road and said: “What’re you thinkin’ about, Ky?”
“Revenge,” Kyra said, staring down the white line that split the midnight highway. And then she reached in the backseat, rifling through the tangle of guns and potions and powders and talismans, and her fingers closed around a black book, its tattered cover ridged and cracked with tiny fissures like scars ... or the almost imperceptible gaps between a Crow’s feathers.
Kyra closed her eyes. Touching the book was almost like touching the Crow itself.
She was so close now. Closer than she’d ever been.
Kyra didn’t say another word.
Neither did Johnny.
But he laughed, and there was a nasty tone to his laughter that Kyra liked.
She liked it a lot.
Arizona Highway 90
46 miles southeast of Tucson
At the shrunken head’s direction, Johnny Church drove north toward the bright lights of Tucson. More specifically he headed for Interstate 10, which would take them through Tucson to Phoenix. While the Interstate was definitely more risky than the deserted secondary roads they usually traveled, it was a hell of a lot more direct. And Johnny Church liked direct.
Church was riding high on blood and adrenaline and the thrill of the kill. Sure, the main roads were way more cop-intensive, but Johnny wasn’t afraid of the law tonight. Not any man-made law, that is. Besides, the plan was to dump the corpses long before they reached the Interstate.
Get rid of the Crowbait ASAP. Yeah. That was all right with Johnny Church.
Where and when that would happen, Johnny didn’t have a clue. Kyra had said that her instincts were driving her north and west, and Johnny trusted Kyra’s instincts. They were strong, and she knew when to listen to them. The signs would come. They always did. And until they did, Johnny was content to put the pedal to the metal.
There wasn’t much to see out here—dark plains and scrub- covered hills and dry, sandy washes. They passed silently through the sleepy desert communities of Mescalero and El Vado. The residents—mostly Mexican Americans—were nowhere in sight. For all Johnny knew, these might have been ghost towns—the bones of adobes and a few scattered pottery
For the venom, she understood quite suddenly, was of her own making.
She could no more escape it than she could escape the Crow.
Even if she managed to destroy the black messenger, another might travel the dark highways in its wake, and another . . . the birds might trail her until white daylight was black with wings, relentless as a pack of hellhounds on her tail.
The birds had no choice.
They had to follow.
They were creatures like no others. . . .
Driven by unnamed instincts that pumped through their beating wings like black fire . . . driven by the primitive concept of tribal retribution buried deep in the base of their avian brains . . . driven by the ancient thirst for vengeance.
This drive was inherent to the ancient code, part of the Crow’s lore that had been passed on through the ages as a species-specific memory. Kyra Damon was well-versed in the details. She had to be, if she were to succeed in her mission.
To succeed, she’d have to destroy the entire Corvid clan. She knew how to do that. Knew the avenues to travel, the precautions to take.
For once, near death, Kyra Damon had glimpsed the realm of the Crow.
And, like no one else who had ever walked this earth, she had lived to tell the tale.
Kyra winced, strangling on the memory, her breath trapped in her chest. The Crow had caused her great pain, pain she could never forget. But remembering that pain was just as dangerous, for memory made the pain much too real, and suddenly Kyra’s chrome necklace seemed much too tight, its thirteen loops encircling her throat like a hangman’s noose—
Kyra exhaled sharply, drew a deep breath of clean desert air.
Her hand went to her throat, and the pulse beat she found there was wild and alive.
Johnny, ever attentive, turned his eyes from the road and said: “What’re you thinkin’ about, Ky?”
“Revenge,” Kyra said, staring down the white line that split the midnight highway. And then she reached in the backseat, rifling through the tangle of guns and potions and powders and talismans, and her fingers closed around a black book, its tattered cover ridged and cracked with tiny fissures like scars ... or the almost imperceptible gaps between a Crow’s feathers.
Kyra closed her eyes. Touching the book was almost like touching the Crow itself.
She was so close now. Closer than she’d ever been.
Kyra didn’t say another word.
Neither did Johnny.
But he laughed, and there was a nasty tone to his laughter that Kyra liked.
She liked it a lot.
Arizona Highway 90
46 miles southeast of Tucson
At the shrunken head’s direction, Johnny Church drove north toward the bright lights of Tucson. More specifically he headed for Interstate 10, which would take them through Tucson to Phoenix. While the Interstate was definitely more risky than the deserted secondary roads they usually traveled, it was a hell of a lot more direct. And Johnny Church liked direct.
Church was riding high on blood and adrenaline and the thrill of the kill. Sure, the main roads were way more cop-intensive, but Johnny wasn’t afraid of the law tonight. Not any man-made law, that is. Besides, the plan was to dump the corpses long before they reached the Interstate.
Get rid of the Crowbait ASAP. Yeah. That was all right with Johnny Church.
Where and when that would happen, Johnny didn’t have a clue. Kyra had said that her instincts were driving her north and west, and Johnny trusted Kyra’s instincts. They were strong, and she knew when to listen to them. The signs would come. They always did. And until they did, Johnny was content to put the pedal to the metal.
There wasn’t much to see out here—dark plains and scrub- covered hills and dry, sandy washes. They passed silently through the sleepy desert communities of Mescalero and El Vado. The residents—mostly Mexican Americans—were nowhere in sight. For all Johnny knew, these might have been ghost towns—the bones of adobes and a few scattered pottery
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