Thursday, April 18, 2013

Riding the Storm Out

It’s unwise to push Nate. I’d done so repeatedly, out of dire need. He had trouble accepting that.

I kept quiet, letting his antique rock music wash over me. Magic built, sliding through my body like a sentient thing. The markings acted as loci, power pooling, sparking pins and needles, only sharper. I hadn’t asked for my “gift.” I’d been impressed into service with no one to lead me.

Nate broke silence first. “Why does my shoulder itch?”

“Best guess? The hive is trying to gain control. The tattoo prevents them.”


I hid my smile, because it really was.


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