Free Shaman's Blood by Anne C. Petty Page B

now that the snake tourniquet had been removed. To his relief, the ant-sting illusion was gone, too.
    “You know, I could use a cold-nerved fella like you. You handled that snake like a pro. In fact, I’m thinking mebbe the Lord sent you here, to help us keep doing His work.”
    Ned was suddenly painfully, aware that everyone was staring at him. “No, I don’t think so,” he managed. “I was just…” He frowned, unable to articulate exactly what he was just doing there. He’d found them more or less by instinct and a few lucky questions back in the last town.
    Ned stumbled out of the tent, his mind a blur. He tried to orient himself toward the road, and then realized someone had fallen in step with him. A young guy, nearly as tall as himself, loped along beside him. White t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his biceps, well-worn jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, dark blonde hair swept back from his face in a pomaded wave, unlit cigarette clamped between his lips—the essence of cool. He vaguely reminded Ned of that popular young actor whose name escaped him. The one who’d taken himself out in a blaze of race car glory last year. It had been all over the news.
    “Need a ride somewhere?” The stranger’s voice was friendly, with a hint of amusement.
    “Yeah, I do. Much obliged.” 
    “This way, then.” He steered Ned toward the edge of the clearing where the Packard rested near a stand of blackjack oaks and sumacs. Ned climbed into the passenger seat and sank against its cracked leather. His rescuer slid into the driver’s seat.
    “Name’s Earl Wayne Marshall II. You?”
    “Ned…Waterston.” Ned chewed his lip. It’d been a while since he’d actually used his own name. Nearly three years now since his mother’s death, and nobody’d come looking for him. He guessed it was all right.
    “Nice to meetcha,” Wayne said, digging his keys out of his jeans. “Been to my dad’s funeral in Macon. I was heading back to Frisco by way of Ft. Worth and took a wrong turn. Saw the tent revival back there and was gonna ask somebody for directions, but the show was more interesting. Especially your part.”
    “That wasn’t intentional,” Ned said. “It just happened.”
    “Well, you sure looked like you knew what you were doing. I thought, now there’s a cat’s got some brass ones.”
    Ned sighed. He wished he’d never listened to Delphine and her idiotic suggestion. The less anyone knew about him, the better he liked it.
    Wayne reached under the seat, scrabbled around for a minute, and then produced a bottle of bourbon about two-thirds empty. 
    “You look like you could use a drink.”
    Ned eyed the bottle, remembering. “No, sorry, I don’t touch alcohol.”
    “Don’t worry, I’m over twenty-one, by a day or two. Hundred percent legal,” he laughed, uncorking the bottle and taking a quick pull. “Sure?” He held out the bottle.
    “No, I can’t.”
    Wayne shrugged. “Suit yourself, though most cats I know would never turn down a taste of boss Kentucky gold.”
    Wayne cranked the wagon and put it in gear, backing away from the crowd of people gathered in front of the revival tent. The great metal beast lumbered across the parking area, bumped over a shallow gulley in the gathering dark, and found its way out onto the dirt road that eventually aimed toward Ft. Worth. 
    Wayne pulled a flattened pack of Luckies from his sleeve roll and tapped one out. “Smoke?” he asked, offering the pack. Ned shook his head. “Well, you’re just a barrel of laughs, aren’t you?”
    “Sorry,” Ned muttered. He watched the line of trees roll by in the Packard’s headlights.
    After a few minutes of silence, Wayne asked, “So, how come you were hanging there watching all those snakes get abused? Since you weren’t looking for a job or anything.”
    “A voudou priestess sent me,” Ned answered. No point in lying, since he couldn’t think of a good cover story anyway.
    Wayne nodded. “I can dig it.”