approach him, deal with him, treat him the way that Flint Marko had been treated before, was going to discover that there had been a major paradigm shift.
To his ex-wife, he had been a figure of contempt upon whom she could blame everything wrong with her life. To the cops, he was just a dumb con, a slob who had gotten lucky in eluding them for as long as he had and deserved to rot in jail.
Only Penny had seen the real Flint Marko. Only Penny loved him, and yet she was the one that a cruel god was intent on removing from the world. Now it seemed, though, that God wasn't as cruel as Marko had been supposing. Marko had been given this amazing gift, and he was going to use it for all it was worth.
He was going to use it to help Penny, reward her for her love and devotion.
Penny Marko's dead father had risen from his grave, and heaven help anyone who got in his way—for if they sowed the storm, they would reap the sandstorm.
----
Chapter Seven
PRIORITIES
Mary Jane Watson sprinted up the stairwell in Peter's apartment building, clutching the newspaper to her chest. She was doing everything she could to keep herself together, furious over her self-pity and inability to remember what was important. Mere hours ago she had been at the hospital where Harry Osborn might well have died. Yet he had survived, and wasn't that really far more important than the contents of the paper she was holding? Didn't one really have to prioritize in life and—
She stopped, gripped the stairwell railing as a wave of nausea passed over her, and realized she was coming close to throwing up because she was so upset. She waited until the impulse was gone, then made it the rest of the way up the stairs. She banged on the door and heard a distracted "Yeah?" from within. Obviously Peter was studying. He always sounded as if he were speaking to her from the surface of Mars when his mind was occupied with his schoolbooks. Normally she found it charming.
This day she found nothing charming.
"It's me," she said. Peter had given her a key to the front door of the apartment building in which he lived, but she needed his aid to come into the apartment.
"Hey! Come in!" his voice came.
She rolled her eyes in annoyance. "You know I can't open the door!"
"Pull, lift, and give it a good shove." He still sounded distracted. Clearly he was in the middle of studying and didn't want to be bothered to get up. At that moment she would have kicked the door open if she weren't afraid of breaking her leg. She wasn't ruling out the possibility of kicking
him
, though.
"
Just come on and help me
!" Her tone of voice made it clear that she was fed up, and if he didn't get off his ass and open up, she was going to turn around and leave, and it would be a cold day in hell before she saw him again.
Obviously she had managed to convey her mood exactly, because she heard the sound of a chair being pushed back from the desk (yep, studying), and moments later Peter swung the door open and looked at her quizzically. She held up the newspaper in response. Clearly he didn't understand, because he said, "What?"
"The review," she replied icily.
"The review! I forgot!" He hit his forehead with the base of his hand and obviously thought he knew what the problem was. He assumed she was annoyed with him because he'd forgotten that her play's opening-night notices were going to be hitting the streets. She was holding the
New York Times
, unarguably the foremost paper in setting critical perception for New York City. Indeed, most of the other papers were irrelevant. The
Times
could make or break you. "How was it? Great?"
She felt her throat constricting with fury. "They hated it. They hated me."
Peter looked as if he thought either Mary Jane had read it wrong or he had heard her wrong. "They can't hate you," he assured her, as if she had said something on par with announcing that Congress had endeavored to repeal the law of gravity.
In response, she turned to the Arts and
To his ex-wife, he had been a figure of contempt upon whom she could blame everything wrong with her life. To the cops, he was just a dumb con, a slob who had gotten lucky in eluding them for as long as he had and deserved to rot in jail.
Only Penny had seen the real Flint Marko. Only Penny loved him, and yet she was the one that a cruel god was intent on removing from the world. Now it seemed, though, that God wasn't as cruel as Marko had been supposing. Marko had been given this amazing gift, and he was going to use it for all it was worth.
He was going to use it to help Penny, reward her for her love and devotion.
Penny Marko's dead father had risen from his grave, and heaven help anyone who got in his way—for if they sowed the storm, they would reap the sandstorm.
----
Chapter Seven
PRIORITIES
Mary Jane Watson sprinted up the stairwell in Peter's apartment building, clutching the newspaper to her chest. She was doing everything she could to keep herself together, furious over her self-pity and inability to remember what was important. Mere hours ago she had been at the hospital where Harry Osborn might well have died. Yet he had survived, and wasn't that really far more important than the contents of the paper she was holding? Didn't one really have to prioritize in life and—
She stopped, gripped the stairwell railing as a wave of nausea passed over her, and realized she was coming close to throwing up because she was so upset. She waited until the impulse was gone, then made it the rest of the way up the stairs. She banged on the door and heard a distracted "Yeah?" from within. Obviously Peter was studying. He always sounded as if he were speaking to her from the surface of Mars when his mind was occupied with his schoolbooks. Normally she found it charming.
This day she found nothing charming.
"It's me," she said. Peter had given her a key to the front door of the apartment building in which he lived, but she needed his aid to come into the apartment.
"Hey! Come in!" his voice came.
She rolled her eyes in annoyance. "You know I can't open the door!"
"Pull, lift, and give it a good shove." He still sounded distracted. Clearly he was in the middle of studying and didn't want to be bothered to get up. At that moment she would have kicked the door open if she weren't afraid of breaking her leg. She wasn't ruling out the possibility of kicking
him
, though.
"
Just come on and help me
!" Her tone of voice made it clear that she was fed up, and if he didn't get off his ass and open up, she was going to turn around and leave, and it would be a cold day in hell before she saw him again.
Obviously she had managed to convey her mood exactly, because she heard the sound of a chair being pushed back from the desk (yep, studying), and moments later Peter swung the door open and looked at her quizzically. She held up the newspaper in response. Clearly he didn't understand, because he said, "What?"
"The review," she replied icily.
"The review! I forgot!" He hit his forehead with the base of his hand and obviously thought he knew what the problem was. He assumed she was annoyed with him because he'd forgotten that her play's opening-night notices were going to be hitting the streets. She was holding the
New York Times
, unarguably the foremost paper in setting critical perception for New York City. Indeed, most of the other papers were irrelevant. The
Times
could make or break you. "How was it? Great?"
She felt her throat constricting with fury. "They hated it. They hated me."
Peter looked as if he thought either Mary Jane had read it wrong or he had heard her wrong. "They can't hate you," he assured her, as if she had said something on par with announcing that Congress had endeavored to repeal the law of gravity.
In response, she turned to the Arts and
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