By Charles L. Grant
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Additional resources for Bloodwind
My god, not against her. A shuddering inhalation, and she dialed Harriet's number. Six rings later she answered. " There was a hesitation, a murmuring in the background. " Brightly, almost too loudly. "Give me a couple of minutes, okay? I got to get my stuff together. Gee, you really shouldn't lend your car like that, you know? My pop always screams when I do something like that. " Pat told her she understood, then mentioned the weather and the snow and what they would be doing in class today until finally, several minutes after she'd begun, Harriet cut her off politely.
He was right, and she knew it as she followed him downstairs. Danvers would hear nothing now but the sound of his own grief, the beat of his own bewilderment. Nevertheless, she hated leaving him there with sycophants and phonies. And she hated it twenty minutes later when she and Greg, Stephen and Janice, took their places in a Mariner Cove booth. The Cove—the left half a restaurant catering mostly to families, the right half a lounge catering to quiet drinkers—sat back from Chancellor Avenue to face the length of Centre Street, the community's business avenue.
There was little traffic now, and what pedestrians strayed outside moved swiftly, hunched as if goaded by a stiff stormwind. The police station was on the corner diagonal, the Town Hall two lots to the Cove's left. And for the Cove, red brick and white trim in imitation of Monticello, it was a slow night, a January night, when the bartender in red velvet and the waitresses in nautical black wanted nothing more than to go home and warm their feet by a fire. Pat sympathized, thinking as she stared at her gin-and-tonic that the way she felt now she'd never be warm again.