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Back Black Ambrosia Save as PDF
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 wanted to lie down in the snowbank and wait for someone to come and rescue me. I wanted some­one to take me away from all this, to take care of me. I was tired of doing it by myself.

Instead, I just kept kicking at that snowbank, and when I’d expended a little excess energy, I decided that home was indeed the place to be. There, I could brew myself a nice hot cup of tea and get comfortable. And sleep. I was so tired.

Feeling the hot sun on my back and the cold on my face, I put my head down and began to walk toward home. Suddenly the sanctuary of my little apartment was ever so appealing. I could hide there. My pace quickened.

I had crossed the street, hearing new life in my footsteps, when I heard a husky, whiskey-­honed voice boom a greeting.

“Good mornin’! Ain’t she a beauty?”

A man, a big man with flesh rolling over his trousers, stood in the corner doorway of a warehouse. He was barefoot and balding and wearing a stretch­-necked T-­shirt, and he was clapping his hands against the cold and dancing a little, his bare pink toes finding fault with the hard nuggets of salt atop the cold sidewalk.

“You keep looking at your feet while you walk, you’ll miss the whole day!” He stopped fidgeting for a moment, rubbed his hands together briskly, then rubbed his reddening arms. “You in a hurry?” He smiled again, big, clean white teeth. I shook my head no. “Well, hell, come on in then, get out of that cold.” He suddenly started to shiver convulsively, doing a strange little dance in his bare feet, his belly jiggling obscenely. “God damn, it’s cold out here.” He opened the door and I walked through, smiling at his odd appeal.

He followed me in and closed the door behind him. “Well, pretty thing, what can I offer you? Coffee? Tea? A friend? That’s what I need, anyway, a little personal company. A little female company. Name’s Nicks. Captain of this here club. Most call me Cap.”

“I’m Angelina Watson. Tea would be fine.”

“One cup coming up.” He turned away, then paused and waved an arm around the warehouse. “Welcome to the Seven Slopes Anti-­Tourist Yacht Club.”

The room occupied the entire vast end of a warehouse. The roof with its skylights and metal rafters stretched far overhead. A metal partition di­vided the Yacht Club from the rest of the warehouse building, but the wall reached only twelve or fourteen feet high.