Free Black Heart Loa by Adrian Phoenix Page A
Authors: Adrian Phoenix
the street signs.
Augustine interrupted,
Lightning illuminated another upcoming street sign. Rain beaded the letters: COTTONWOOD ROAD .
Bingo. Almost there. St. Cyr’s place branched off fromCottonwood—a dirt driveway snaking down from the road.
Layne turned the Harley right onto Cottonwood, the pavement giving way to gravel. Reducing his speed to 30 mph, he shifted his attention back to Augustine.
Augustine’s sending was dry as a river in the Sahara.
Augustine murmured, and Layne had the uneasy feeling he meant it.
A mental snort. Layne felt a wry smile pull at his lips.
Layne’s thought died unfinished as a vehicle blurred out from a side road at high speed less than twenty-five yards in front of him. Layne swerved and felt the Harley’s tires stutter across the rain-puddled gravel, then slide. Felt the bike going down as the road rushed up. Sound faded, drowned out by his drumming heart.
Fuck.
Time stretched out, slow and elastic, while the truckswung wide in an effort to miss him, a scowl of concentration on the driver’s face as he spun the steering wheel. Caught in the slo-mo of imminent disaster, Layne realized that if he wanted to avoid a collision between his head and the Dodge Ram’s looming steel bumper with the trailer hitch jutting like a sword pommel behind it, he had to move. Now.
Layne kicked his legs free of the bike and rolled.
Time snapped back in on itself.
He hit the road hard, shoulder first. He heard a loud crack as his helmet smacked into something. Blue light flashed like jet engine flame through his mind. Pain stunned him, stole his breath, as he bounced and somersaulted across the gravel road and into a tree trunk or post or rock wall.
Stars lit up his vision like a Disneyland fireworks display.
Just before the fireworks display went dark and he was shuffled off to Night-Nightland, Layne thought he saw a Siberian husky and what looked like a pair of wolves staring at him from the back of the fishtailing Dodge Ram.
Musta hit the son-of-a-bitching bumper after all.
Then all thought winked out.
N INE
Q UEEN OF S PADES
A ugustine felt the nomad’s consciousness switch off, even through his protective bubble of static. Neurons pulsed and flashed in the darkness, a ferocious lightning storm of pain—which he, fortunately, couldn’t feel. But if he abandoned his bubble and climbed into the driver’s seat, he would, and he might very well black out, just as Valin had.
Of course, attempting to replace Valin at the controls without his cooperation and without their precise little avoidance dance could lead to some very ugly consequences—the meshing
Lightning illuminated another upcoming street sign. Rain beaded the letters: COTTONWOOD ROAD .
Bingo. Almost there. St. Cyr’s place branched off fromCottonwood—a dirt driveway snaking down from the road.
Layne turned the Harley right onto Cottonwood, the pavement giving way to gravel. Reducing his speed to 30 mph, he shifted his attention back to Augustine.
A mental snort.
Layne’s thought died unfinished as a vehicle blurred out from a side road at high speed less than twenty-five yards in front of him. Layne swerved and felt the Harley’s tires stutter across the rain-puddled gravel, then slide. Felt the bike going down as the road rushed up. Sound faded, drowned out by his drumming heart.
Fuck.
Time stretched out, slow and elastic, while the truckswung wide in an effort to miss him, a scowl of concentration on the driver’s face as he spun the steering wheel. Caught in the slo-mo of imminent disaster, Layne realized that if he wanted to avoid a collision between his head and the Dodge Ram’s looming steel bumper with the trailer hitch jutting like a sword pommel behind it, he had to move. Now.
Layne kicked his legs free of the bike and rolled.
Time snapped back in on itself.
He hit the road hard, shoulder first. He heard a loud crack as his helmet smacked into something. Blue light flashed like jet engine flame through his mind. Pain stunned him, stole his breath, as he bounced and somersaulted across the gravel road and into a tree trunk or post or rock wall.
Stars lit up his vision like a Disneyland fireworks display.
Just before the fireworks display went dark and he was shuffled off to Night-Nightland, Layne thought he saw a Siberian husky and what looked like a pair of wolves staring at him from the back of the fishtailing Dodge Ram.
Musta hit the son-of-a-bitching bumper after all.
Then all thought winked out.
N INE
Q UEEN OF S PADES
A ugustine felt the nomad’s consciousness switch off, even through his protective bubble of static. Neurons pulsed and flashed in the darkness, a ferocious lightning storm of pain—which he, fortunately, couldn’t feel. But if he abandoned his bubble and climbed into the driver’s seat, he would, and he might very well black out, just as Valin had.
Of course, attempting to replace Valin at the controls without his cooperation and without their precise little avoidance dance could lead to some very ugly consequences—the meshing
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