Tusk's smile was like a terrible wound that ruined his face, a mess of yellowed teeth and unseeing, dripping faith. "Thanks, Dexter...," he said, his voice breaking, thick with the relief of a man who had just been saved from the executioner's block.
"Kina will be so happy—she will stop at last—she won't stop nagging me about—about how I can't make her—" His words were thrown, mixed up with his own dishonourment.
I wasn't paying attention.
His thanking me was just sound. His terror? Of no use. The only thing that counted was the slow, dense throb of expectancy running through my veins, the fire wrapping up from the belly like a snake ready for assault.
The sun was getting under the trees, changing the forest into a slaughterhouse of the sun—amber and crimson, the same colors as the dying breath of a fresh kill.
I looked at the world map, my fingers hovering like a god over the flashing dots that indicated fates yet to be decided.
Ravina's position wasn't there.
Fuck.
