When he finally released her, Jabez’s mother was flushed and panting, smiling up at her son and holding his hand in hers. Even from where he sat, Ryan could see the unmistakable bulge of an erection pressing at the front of the lordling’s breeches.
“You have traveled far, Master Thursby, I hear,” Ja-bez Cawdor said, turning away from his mother and to-
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tally ignoring his gormandizing father. Baron Harvey Cawdor ate on, never lifting his eyes from his bowl.
“Gaia!” Krysty exclaimed, pushing her plate away in disgust at the blatant behavior.
“Eat it,” Ryan said in a low, urgent voice. “Don’t let him know it matters.” Raising his voice he said, “We have traveled many miles for many years, my Lord Jabez.”
“And you have lost an eye. How careless.”
“It is common enough in Deathlands,” Ryan replied. “And an arm or a leg or even a mind.”
As though he were bored, Jabez sat and beckoned over his shoulder to the servants to bring him food, taking only chunks of pork. His father also called out, in a voice muffled by the dribbling mush he was eating, for more meat. When he finished a plate he would knock it from the hands of the particular servant with a grunt of rage that rose high and thin like the scream of a gelded ani-mal.
Down at the other end of the table there was no con-versation between Jak, J.B., Krysty and Ryan, each locked in his or her own thoughts.
Ryan’s mind was whirling at the visible madness that ran the ville. Harvey was a double-crazy who would eat himself into the grave within the next few months. His wife was psychotically withdrawn and obviously depen-dent on jolt. From the junkies Ryan had seen, the woman would also be dead within the year. And that would leave her incestuous son, Jabez.
The security at Front Royal was tight, primed with fear, and it would be hard to find a way of slaughtering his brother and family. Their insanity was both a plus and a minus. It needed careful consideration.
“A rabbit, Master Thursby?”
“You’re well informed.”
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Jabez persisted. “Thieves are blinded in parts of the Deathlands, Thursby.”
“Yeah.”
The voice was soft, insistent. “Are you a thief, Thursby? You and the killer and the two muties? Killers, are you? Are they killers, Mother? Should I take them where it’s quiet and ask them?”
Rachel didn’t answer, but Harvey looked up, glancing, eyes bright amid the smeared food, and shouted to his son, “I’m eating, you filthy little bastard! Fuck off! Go on, get away from our table before I-” The anger faded as quickly as it had risen.
“What’ll you do, Father?” Jabez asked. “Thursby the killer and his friends are listening.”
“They can leave after breaking their fasts tomorrow morning. I’m bored with ’em. Hear me, Thursby? You can go tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Baron Cawdor.” Ryan’s mind darted. That meant they must do what they could during the night. There was that secret door between his room and Krysty’s…
“More of those eggs,” Ryan’s brother bellowed, strug-gling to look over his hunched shoulder for that particu-lar delicacy.
Rachel was sitting back in her chair, waving a hand dreamily to and fro, humming to herself. Like her hus-band and her son, the woman marched to the beat of a different drummer.
“Your hair is beautiful,” Jabez said, pushing his own seat back so hard that it crashed over onto the floor. Ryan felt a pang of concern.
The young man moved with a lethal elegance, allowing his hand to drift over the carved chairs, gesturing for the
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old man with the breadboard to step out of his way. When he reached Krysty, he stopped, his eyes flicking between Ryan and his mother. There was something about Ryan that bothered him; that was clear. As long as he didn’t start to make some connection…
His hand darted out like a striking adder and tugged at the cord that kept Krysty’s flowing scarlet hair bound up. It tumbled about her shoulders in such a cascade of light and color that even the baron was distracted from his eating for a moment.