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the blade sliced through flesh, the steaming blood as the abdominal cavity
opened, was going to sear him from sanity... God, oh God, Sallie, NO!
The huge man curled into a ball, tearing pitifully at his bedding. He sucked
breath after gasping breath while his stubbled face twisted in anguish.
Kirelle fought back tears and guilt, aware as never before that her healer's
instinct to mend in this place might tempt her to irrevocable folly. These
were reavers, whose actions threatened ruin to the borderlands. Their
misguided feelings could not be permitted to matter. Kirelle fished the second
stone from her satchel and approached the next man, the one with the gentle
face who lay with his cheek neatly cradled on one elbow. By appearance, he
seemed the most harmless of the three, with his fine, pale hair, and the glint
of a linked gold bracelet circling one elegant wrist.
Feeling the sting acutely - that Bill had bagged a deer be should have seen
first - Rafe lounged in bed and telired the frustrated moment when the owl had
chanced to fly past. His reflex reaction had made up for the lapse, as he'd
ripped off that snap shot on impulse.
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He shut his eyes, revelling in the satisfaction he'd felt as the bird tumbled
out of mid-flight.
The snooze alarm's buzz erased Rafe's faint smile. Lord, he should have had
his tail in and out of the shower ten minutes ago.
Worried over the financial summary he was expected to present, that was in
order as far as notes went but needed fleshing out before the meeting, Rafe
slugged aside designer bedclothes and stopped in shocked surprise. His hands
were smeared with fresh blood. On the sheets by his pillow lay an owl's
feather, broken and wrung and blotched scarlet.
Four-letter words were inadequate. His first thought, that he'd be late for
the board meeting, was belatedly followed by the incongruity of the gory
feather. He hesitated, unwilling to come to grips with the weirdness, that a
dead owl could enact some spooky sort of vengeance.
The concept was just too bizarre.
Unwilling to lend credence to hallucinations, Rafe plunged bullishly on toward
the bathroom.
But his hands as he turned on the shower were still maddeningly, scarletly
drenched. The fancy's irrational persistence left him ticked enough to plunge
into the spray while the water was still icy cold.
Through subsequent shivers and gooseflesh, he refused to note the color of the
water that swirled down the drain. Blast if he'd be sorry he'd shot some
worthless owl.
He killed the water, snapped a bath sheet over his shoulders, shaved, then
made a paranoid inspection of his knuckles. There had to be a cut he hadn't
noticed.
Nothing. He dug out a clean shirt and dismissed the distraction as he hurried
through the motions of dressing.
The blood appeared again as he snatched up his briefcase. Frantic, he dropped
the expensive leather handle before the stains soaked in. The case hit the
hardwood floor with an echoing bang and fell over as he dashed to the kitchen
for a dish-cloth. His thoughts on his presentation all scattered, he dabbed
ineffectively at the blotches left on his briefcase. Predictably, they didn't
come out.
He'd have to spend the bucks to buy another one.
A harried glance at his Rolex showed he was now irretrievably late. The report
was going to have to be presented in its current, raw state, no credit to his
months of hard work. Annoyed
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by life's unfairness, Rafe snatched his overcoat from the closet and ran.
He got no farther than his apartment door before his fingers became drenched
in blood again. An explosive curse ripped from him. This time, he'd managed to
spatter his shirtcuff into the bargain. Back in the bathroom, hands under the
running water: this has to be a nightmare, he thought. Raggedly nervous, he
reached to straighten his tie, then recalled his wet fingers and jerked short.
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The last fool straw in this messed-up morning was to look as if he'd dribbled
breakfast down his front. With a sour laugh at himself, he grabbed briefcase
and overcoat, rushed out of the apartment and sprinted into the parking lot.
He unlocked his BMW, breathless and feeling pig stupid, and hopeful the fresh
air might steady him.
Probably stress and anxiety had caused his mind to play tricks. But when he
jabbed the car keys into the ignition, the fresh blood was back again.
Damning, slippery fingerprints smeared on everything he touched. Choking back
sobs of frustration, he saw another mangled owl's feather float down and
settle on the dashboard.
At that moment Rare fully understood: he was not going to handle his meeting;
he was in fact going to lose his job. The money and prestige and quick
thinking upon which he had secured his success were not going to save him. An
owl shot down for a moment's stung pride had marked him, and the crime was
going to blight his life forever...
Kirelle sat back on her heels, saddened by what she had learned. The two
rearers she had dreamspelled were just thoughtless, prideful braggarts,
ignorant rather than evil. A stag and an owl had died to no purpose, and for [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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