Killing Rites

Начало книги

AS ALWAYS, my first gratitude belongs to Jayné Franck for the loan of her name. Also, to my editor, Jennifer Heddle, and my agents, Shawna McCarthy and Danny Baror, without whom I would never have come this far. This book in particular exists because of the kindness and understanding of my family, and Ty Franck and Carrie Vaughn, who have made this series better than it would have been.

Now that she was alone with him, Marisol wished she’d paid mre attention the first time Carl scared her.

The winter stars of northern New Mexico spilled out across the sky. There wasn’t any moon, and this far out of town, there weren’t any lights except the distant ant-trail of white and red on the highway. The patches of snow on the ground didn’t have more than starlight to reflect. There were supposed to be meteors, but there weren’t, and the codeine in the cough syrup Carl stole from the hospital didn’t feel right. She lay in the scarred steel bed of the truck, shivering and watching the darkness. Carl wasn’t even pretending anymore. He was sitting up, smoking one of those fucked-up filterless cigarettes he bought down in Española, and poking at her with his feet. The cherry kept going bright and then dim and then bright again. In the starlight, she couldn’t tell where he was looking, but she figured it was at her. Not that she could see. She just felt like his eyes were on her.

Читать дальше →