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Joe Martin slid out of the saddle and moved cautiously toward Killian, his shotgun pointed at the man slumped against the Rock. He jabbed Killian in the shoulder with the tip of his rifle.
Killian slid sideways and lay in a heap in the thick mud.
"He's dead," Martin said.
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The man beside him laughed quietly. "The re-ward said dead or alive. Hey, what's that in his hand?"
In Killian's hand, the amethyst started to glow, lightly at first, then in pulsing, radiant purple rays. A pale white light crept through his fingers and up his arm, moving slowly.
"He probably stole it from some widow," Martin said, shoving his rifle back into its long leather holster on his saddle. "Let's get him onto a horse."
Lainie screamed Killian's name, but the sound was no more than an echoing sharpness on the wind. She reached out and scooped an armful of air, holding it to her chest, pretending that she could still feel him, still touch him.
An uncomfortable pulling sensation filled her stomach and radiated through her limbs to her fingertips and toes. She spiraled end over end?at least it felt as if she were spinning. She couldn't tell anymore, she was so dizzy.
The sounds of the night died. She couldn't hear anything but the gasping spurts of her own panicked breathing. She seemed to fall into the darkness and float there, alone except for a million floating golden-bright sparks.
And then, just as suddenly as before, there was
nothing.
Chapter T
r
Lainie came awake slowly. She had a moment's peace, a wonderful, relaxing sensation of everything being right with the world. She stretched lazily and opened her eyes. A white wall cluttered with tacked-up photographs and pictures filled her field of vision.
It took a second for things to register.
She lurched backward. The metal wheels on her chair legs screeched across the hardwood floor. She slammed into the open door and stared around, blinking hard, unable for a second to breathe.
She was sitting in her own chair, in her own office. Her computer sat in front of her, its blank, empty screen mocked her.
She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the reality, but it didn't help. Her breathing fractured into great, wheezing gulps, her heart pounded so loud she couldn't hear anything else.
Except the thunder. Thunder.
She forced her eyes open and looked out her window. Rain clattered against the Thermopane glass, slid down in opaque, sparkling streams. Wind rattled the gutters and shook the maple trees huddled in her yard.
The storm was still raging ... exactly as it had been. As if she'd never really left at all.
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Panic surged through her. She shook her head in denial. It couldn 't be true. It couldn 't be ...
"I'm not that crazy," she cried.
But she was. Goddamn it, she was that crazy. . ..
She yanked a handful of sweater and brought it to her nose, sniffing, breathing in the warm, yarny scent.
There was no hint of a dust smell, no sharp odor of blood and sweat and mud. Nothing but Tide laundry soap and a lingering trace of Fend
i perfume.
