Read Dead Roses for a Blue Lady for Free Online

with us for over a week, my friend. One of the parishioners found you unconscious amongst the goats in his pasture and brought you to me."
    "Did I—did I have a weapon on my person when he found me?"
    Brother Heinrich lifted an eyebrow. "You mean the kriss? It took three strong men to pry it from your hand. "
    "Where is it?"
    "There will be time enough for that, later, friend. First you must rest—
    "You don't understand!" Ghilardi said, his voice raised in agitation. "Where is it?"
    The door to the sick room opened and a native hill-tribesman, a hand-carved cross dangling from a thong about his neck, stuck his head inside, a look of concern on his face.
    "Brother? There is trouble?"
    "No, Kakar, there is no trouble!" Brother Heinrich said reassuringly. "Could you be so kind as to bring me the kriss our friend was carrying?"
    Kakar disappeared from the doorway, only to return carrying a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth. He glanced at the missionary before handing the package to Ghilardi. Brother Heinrich smiled and nodded, signaling to the hill-man that it was safe to do so. Ghilardi threw back the fold of oilcloth, sighing in relief at the sight of the silver blade.
    "How is it you came to our valley, my friend?" Brother Heinrich asked. "Kakar and the others believed you were set upon by bandits. Is that true?"
    "Yes," Ghilardi said, sliding into the lie as easily as bathwater. "The party I was traveling with was attacked by thieves. They slaughtered them to a man—I was the only one who managed to escape."
    "Kakar said there was blood upon the kriss."
    "Yes. I had to fight my way out." That, at least, was true.
    "Most unfortunate, but praise be to Our Lord And Savior for delivering you from evil. I have heard tell of the cutthroats and brigands that haunt the passes. You were saved by the grace of God."

    Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer ( http://www.novapdf.com )

    "And a sharp knife," Ghilardi said flatly.
    He slept with the Demon Knife under his pillow that night and every night after during his convalescence. When he boarded the ship that would take him back to the ordered world of bankers and clock-makers that he had left behind, the silver blade was close at hand.
    As the steamer left the harbor, Ghilardi stood at the railing and wondered if he could ever truly escape the nightmare he had become a part of. Something told him that no matter how hard or long or far he might run, the horror of the divine would always be with him.

    Cold Turkey
    She had to give the dead boy credit; he had the trick of appearing human nailed down tight. He'd learned just what gestures and inflections to use in his conversation to hide the fact that his surface gloss and glitz wasn't there merely to disguise basic shallowness, but an utter lack of humanity.
    She'd seen enough of the kind of humans he imitated: pallid, self-important intellectuals who prided themselves on their sophistication and knowledge of "hip" art, sharpening their wit at the expense of others. Like the vampiric mimic in their midst, they produced nothing but thrived on draining the vitality from others. The only difference was that the vampire was more honest about it.
    Sonja worked her way to the bar, careful to keep herself shielded from the dead boy's view, both physically and psychically. It wouldn't do for her quarry to catch scent of her just yet. She could hear the vampire's nasal intonations as it held forth on the demerits of various artists.
    "Frankly, I consider his use of photo-montage to be inexcusably banal —If I wanted to look at photographs, I'd go to Olan Mills!"
    She wondered where the vampire had overheard—or stolen—that particular drollery. A dead boy of his wattage didn't come up with ban mots and witty remarks spontaneously.
    When you had to spend a lot of conscious energy remembering to breathe and blink, there was no such thing as top-of-your-head snappy patter. It was all protective coloration, right