Chapters (50)
- Cover
- Roc Books by Jacqueline Carey
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- Forty-seven
- Forty-eight
In the five minutes I’d been outside, the funk had ripened further and the om-mani-fuckme-hum had reached a deeper register that vibrated in the very marrow of my bones. Even with dauda-dagr clutched tightly in my hand, I could feel the atmosphere’s effect. Honestly, I’d never stopped feeling it, but I had a lot of experience with containing my emotions. When I was a little kid, my mom read a book about creative visualization and used the concept to make up techniques to help me deal with my frequent temper tantrums.
I tried to use one now to cope with the effect of the pheromones, imagining it as a brimming cup of desire, tipping it and spilling it away.
Yeah, that didn’t work. The contents of that cup refused to spill.
I tried a different one, one my mom had invented especially for emotions too strong and stubborn to be dismissed. I put my funk-driven lust in a box and tied a bow around it, a pretty package to open later.
It worked.
Feeling clear and sharp, I headed for the bar, dodging writhing bodies and ducking under the pass-through at the service station.
“Whoops!” I tripped over someone. Well, a pair of female someones. One of them wore what looked to be a bartender’s apron around her waist, and nothing else. “Excuse me,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder. “Do you know where I can find the salt?”
She lifted her head from what she was doing, giving me a glazed look and reaching for me with one languid hand.
“Yeah, thanks, not right now.” I plucked her hand from my leg and transferred it atop the hand I had wrapped around dauda-dagr’s hilt. “Are you a bartender? Is there salt back here?”
Her eyes cleared. “What the fuck?” She looked down at the figure beneath her. “Who is this? Do I even know her?”
“I have no idea,” I said apologetically. “Do you have any salt?”
“Salt?”
“Yes!” I was getting impatient. “Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to explain! Do you have any salt?”
Looking bewildered, she pointed to a shelf. It took me a few seconds to identify the plastic tub of bright green lime-flavored margarita salt as the item I wanted. “Perfect.” Grabbing it, I scooted away from the entangled pair. “Thanks.”
There was no answer. Well, not a verbal one. The funk was back in effect.