Chapters (47)
- Cover
- ALSO BY MARJORIE B. KELLOGG AVAILABLE FROM DAW BOOKS
- Dedication
- 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
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- About the Author
“No dawdling, okay?”
I was already on my way.
FIFTEEN
The moment I turned the corner, I knew how dumb I’d been, refusing the chance of shelter. Not just dumb—out of control. What the shrink called my ‘male contact phobia’ was turning lethal on me. Crazy. Any sane person would’ve gone racing after Daniel to say yes, please. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Even though this storm was a monster.
I had nothing against guys. Really. As long as they stayed at arm’s length. Look how close I was with Rubio.
No walls here to break the gale. The wind screamed among the stripped-down piers, trying to knock me flat. Rain hosed across the slick concrete. I sprinted from pillar to pillar, clung to any leftover bit of wall to keep from being swept off into the street below. Only upside: the roof over my head.
Best to head down along Fifth far as I could, then across, avoiding the Causeway. The footbridges were terrifying: slim, swaying passages over dark streets where the rush of water sounded nearer than it should have been. A few had already blown away or hung by a shred of cable while the gusts thrashed the wreckage against the building. Backtrack, change of route. Where a bridge looked vaguely solid, I dashed across as if momentum and the ballooning of my poncho could keep me aloft if it gave way beneath me.
I met no one, and for once, this worried me. The whole city had retreated to high ground, even the worst of the worst. Or so it seemed, until somewhere in the 30s, where isolated stretches of wall screened a passageway alongside the avenue. The rest of the building was wide open, so I hugged the partitions, grateful for even a momentary stall in the wind force. Then, ahead, an ominous bright flickering along the edge of a wall. I backed up to the previous partition and peeked around.
A giant bonfire burned mid-block, big as one of the rooms might have been, silhouetting a crowd milling around it. Shreds of wind-borne chant reached me, and the crackle of the blaze. A dark forest of pillars stood between us, but I felt the heat on my cheeks, glimpsed the firelight reflecting off wet skin and writhing, intertwined bodies. I was glad for Jenn’s mystery video gal. She’d let me know what I was looking at.
Storm Worshippers. This time, at least a hundred of them. And not just dancing. Who knew they gathered and . . . did their thing . . . in such numbers?
Should I sneak past, or run like hell? Can’t claim I had anything like a clear thought just then. Part of me wanted to watch, long enough to bring firsthand info back to the den. Like Spunk always said, observe first, to inform your move. Then move, and make it fast.