![[Oxrun Station] The Bloodwind](https://fs.ageofbook.com/559343/thumbs/152x264/oxrun-station-the-bloodwind.jpg)
couldn't she admit that she needed protecting now and then?
The demon rose from the blue-black sea and slowly turned its head toward her. Fish eyes. Scales. Ears that flared to the back of its head, pointed and scalloped. Arms thick as tree trunks, hands more claws than fin gers. It rose from the blue-black sea and it began to wade toward her. She was sitting on a bed, a canopy bed done in greens and distant cornsilk , sitting on the bed and floating toward a shoreline that jutted out of the surf to cliffs a hundred feet high and covered with gulls. Black gulls, white gulls, and in the center of the colony a crimson gull that shimmered as it rose from its nest and turned into a demon that soared over her head toward the fish-eyed, scaly demon driving with piston thighs toward her. She could not turn around. There was a hush of wind as the crimson demon swept over her, a clash of flesh and bone and claws and teeth as the two demons collided just above the water. But she could not turn around. She could not tell which of the demons was after her heart and which of the demons was after her blood. She could only hear them fighting, only hear them screaming their rage, while the bed rocked with the turbulence of their battle and the blue-black water washed over the edge of the mattress and soaked her nightgown until it was transparent.
Her pillow floated away. Homer was resting on it, pushed down in its center, its front paws high, its nose testing the air.
The bedspread floated away.
The quilt.
She saw her furry slippers bobbing in the waves.
She saw the cliffs nearing, and saw the gulls slowly turning pink, turning red, turning crimson, lifting from their nests to fill the air with a sailor's warning sunrise. Her flesh darkened. The temperature rose. The water boiled. Whitecaps flared and the cliffs began to melt and behind the demons were thrashing closer and closer until she could feel the wind-shock of their blows, of their screams, could barely feel the claw that pierced the back of her neck and penetrated her spine and slowly, slowly, so slowly she dared not nod separated her head from her torso.
Then Oliver Fallchurch rode by on a raft, his cowboy hat stained with seaspray , his fringed gloves blackened, while Ben knelt between Harriet's legs and drove into her while she shrieked Greg's name.
"Draw," Oliver said, reaching for his holster.
Pat began to laugh.
"Draw, you two-timing sonofabitch ," he shouted as the raft drifted out of range. " Draw, goddamnit !"
His hat fell off and his gloves turned to lace and Harriet's orgasm knocked Ben into the blue-black sea where he grew his arm back and turned into a demon that rose from the water. Fish-eyed. Scaled. Piston thighs driving toward her.
She laughed. She screamed. She drove herself up right and saw the muted light filtering through the curtains to lie in a cloud across her bed.
It took her five minutes to stop trembling, and five more before she dared slip her legs over the side and try to stand. She made no attempt at interpretation, even if the demons somehow vaguely resembled Danvers. Rather, she stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, stepped in quickly and closed her eyes until the dream fell to fragments which were washed down the drain. Toweled dry and brushed her hair. Wrapped a terry- cloth robe around her and tied the sash snugly while she walked into the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove. Not tea this morning. Coffee, black, as much of it as she could drink until she was positive she was awake and wasn't still in her bed, riding the sea, listening to the demons that now, as she thought about it, sounded frighteningly like the wind.
She looked outside, cup in hand. A good deal of snow must have fallen during the night: the rose bushes had lost all trace of their burlap capes, there was little bark to be seen on the trees, and when she leaned close to the pane she could hear a shovel working in the driveway.
Good man, Linc , she
The demon rose from the blue-black sea and slowly turned its head toward her. Fish eyes. Scales. Ears that flared to the back of its head, pointed and scalloped. Arms thick as tree trunks, hands more claws than fin gers. It rose from the blue-black sea and it began to wade toward her. She was sitting on a bed, a canopy bed done in greens and distant cornsilk , sitting on the bed and floating toward a shoreline that jutted out of the surf to cliffs a hundred feet high and covered with gulls. Black gulls, white gulls, and in the center of the colony a crimson gull that shimmered as it rose from its nest and turned into a demon that soared over her head toward the fish-eyed, scaly demon driving with piston thighs toward her. She could not turn around. There was a hush of wind as the crimson demon swept over her, a clash of flesh and bone and claws and teeth as the two demons collided just above the water. But she could not turn around. She could not tell which of the demons was after her heart and which of the demons was after her blood. She could only hear them fighting, only hear them screaming their rage, while the bed rocked with the turbulence of their battle and the blue-black water washed over the edge of the mattress and soaked her nightgown until it was transparent.
Her pillow floated away. Homer was resting on it, pushed down in its center, its front paws high, its nose testing the air.
The bedspread floated away.
The quilt.
She saw her furry slippers bobbing in the waves.
She saw the cliffs nearing, and saw the gulls slowly turning pink, turning red, turning crimson, lifting from their nests to fill the air with a sailor's warning sunrise. Her flesh darkened. The temperature rose. The water boiled. Whitecaps flared and the cliffs began to melt and behind the demons were thrashing closer and closer until she could feel the wind-shock of their blows, of their screams, could barely feel the claw that pierced the back of her neck and penetrated her spine and slowly, slowly, so slowly she dared not nod separated her head from her torso.
Then Oliver Fallchurch rode by on a raft, his cowboy hat stained with seaspray , his fringed gloves blackened, while Ben knelt between Harriet's legs and drove into her while she shrieked Greg's name.
"Draw," Oliver said, reaching for his holster.
Pat began to laugh.
"Draw, you two-timing sonofabitch ," he shouted as the raft drifted out of range. " Draw, goddamnit !"
His hat fell off and his gloves turned to lace and Harriet's orgasm knocked Ben into the blue-black sea where he grew his arm back and turned into a demon that rose from the water. Fish-eyed. Scaled. Piston thighs driving toward her.
She laughed. She screamed. She drove herself up right and saw the muted light filtering through the curtains to lie in a cloud across her bed.
It took her five minutes to stop trembling, and five more before she dared slip her legs over the side and try to stand. She made no attempt at interpretation, even if the demons somehow vaguely resembled Danvers. Rather, she stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, stepped in quickly and closed her eyes until the dream fell to fragments which were washed down the drain. Toweled dry and brushed her hair. Wrapped a terry- cloth robe around her and tied the sash snugly while she walked into the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove. Not tea this morning. Coffee, black, as much of it as she could drink until she was positive she was awake and wasn't still in her bed, riding the sea, listening to the demons that now, as she thought about it, sounded frighteningly like the wind.
She looked outside, cup in hand. A good deal of snow must have fallen during the night: the rose bushes had lost all trace of their burlap capes, there was little bark to be seen on the trees, and when she leaned close to the pane she could hear a shovel working in the driveway.
Good man, Linc , she
Similar Books
