Read The Wild Road for Free Online Page B

maudlin poetry. Trekked with amateurish delight through Rome and Spain, apprenticing himself when he could to the old dying masters of the art of bookbinding. Touched the earth and skies of more places than he could count. And everywhere he had found awe and marvel and beauty-in nature, in people, in the things that people could create.
    He loved humans. That he feared and was sometimes disgusted by them as well did not lessen his appreciation. His brothers felt the same, as did their parents, though he knew quite well that many of the remaining clans, scattered in remote reaches of the world, would have preferred a little less humanity, less war and other human folly.
    “Are you a vegetarian?” Lannes asked, opening the refrigerator. He had bound his wings again, and the ache threatened to turn his mood even sourer.
    The woman said nothing. He glanced at her. She was staring at the open refrigerator with such confusion-even despair-that he felt instantly sorry he had asked.
    “No,” she finally said, slowly. “I don’t think I am.”
    It was the perfect opening-and Lannes almost took that moment to pin her down with his questions. He stopped himself, though. Remembered what it had felt like up in that room while she lay unconscious, as he touched her face-with his hands, with a washrag-enveloping her in his magic to make her sleep. Trying, as he did, to see into her mind.
    Not easy to do. The process never had been, for him. It required prolonged touching, skin-to-skin contact. He could cast an illusion, influence a body’s ability to heal-as he had done with the woman’s feet, so that she could walk. Little things here and there. But to reach into a mind was a different business, unsavory at best. This woman was his first attempt in years, and he would not have tried at all had he not been so concerned about her presence in Frederick’s home.
    But what he had seen-what he had not seen-troubled him more than it reassured.
    Run, he remembered, pulling leftover chicken and slices of cheddar from the refrigerator, along with bits of cucumber and onion. He got down a plate, careful of his strength, and made the woman a rough, sloppy sandwich that he hoped tasted better than it looked.
    He handed her the plate. She stared at it, then him.
    “Not poisoned,” he said.
    “Thanks,” she replied dryly, and then in a softer tone, “Really, thank you.’”
    He shrugged, keenly aware that anything he might say- You’re welcome, not a problem, anytime-would sound trite, patronizing. Silence was safer. Lannes stepped back, pretending to busy himself with refilling the electric kettle. But he watched out of the corner of his eye as she gingerly picked up the sandwich and took a bite.
    Hunger flashed across her face. Her next bite was larger, faster.
    Lannes turned his back on her, his wings hot. His heart hot. He needed more tea. Anything to settle his nerves. He marveled that the woman could maintain such calm when he knew-he knew-what lay inside her.
    Confusion. Terror. Loss. Bigger than her body, bigger than the sky.
    He could still feel his hands upon her face, the softness of her skin. Her emotions, overwhelming him even though subconscious. And beyond her fear, something else. Blood. Smoke. Horror. Escaping down a black road, filled with a small voice whispering, Run, run, run.
    Then, nothing else. A hole. A void. So dark, so empty, it had frightened him into withdrawing. The woman was missing part of her mind.
    Stolen, not lost. Lannes could feel it. He knew the difference, had some experience with amnesia. On his travels, long ago, an old Tuscan man had suffered a minor blow to the head, lost a month of his life, an important month-a wedding, a dinner with a dying friend. Lannes had pretended to know something about medicine. Talked big, made claims about Asian reflexology that to this day still made him blush in shame. He had touched the old man, held his breath the entire time, hoping Alberto Guarnieri would not