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Back Black Ambrosia
Chapters (46)
  1. CoverImage
  2. Introduction by Grady Hendrix
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. About the Author
  46. About the Cover

I paused again before answering him, because I didn’t know exactly how to respond. I wanted to pour all of it out to him, all about my mission, my place of calm, the feelings that were mine when I lived up to my potential. But I dared not. Then I wanted to explain about the meditations, and how sometimes I heard voices in my ear, and sometimes I just instinc­tively knew things, and one of the instinctive things I knew was that tonight I should have a towel around my shoulders. But that explanation sounded crazy in my head before the words got out.

So instead I said, “This jacket is too big and sometimes the cold goes up my sleeves and settles on top of my shoulders.” He smiled at this, as if he understood my deception.

The truck was still warm. I climbed in the passen­ger side by myself, and could feel Boyd smiling behind me as he watched me hurry to do it; to establish once and for all that I was able to care for myself, that he needn’t lift me in and out like a child. The solid door closed behind me and I centered myself on the bench seat as he walked around the front and got in. When he shut his door, the familiar space closed about us and all my anxieties fled. We sat in the silence, in the darkness, for a long time. Then he reached up, fired the ignition, and turned on lights, heater, and radio in that same grooved motion. I was fond of it already.

Acceleration pressed me to the seat as we escaped Lewis’s neighborhood.

I resisted the impulse to ask where we were going. I knew that I could trust Boyd, that he would find something for us to do that would be mutually pleas­urable. As we drove toward town, I began to pick up a difference about him, a bit of emptiness. There swirled about his head a trouble, so I sat next to him in the warm cab and tried to ease the space around us.

Eventually, he spoke, his deep voice startling in the confined area. I knew Boyd’s silent conversation; his speaking voice was foreign to my ears. I took a moment to digest the sound before what he said had any meaning. And then I was quite shocked.

“A kid was murdered at the dance last night,” he said.

Murdered!

“But we were the last to leave,” I said.