Anne Rice - v1, Lasher

She felt a swift delicious sensation spread out in

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Unformatted text preview: ot himself in her eyes, but only her. "Gifford," he whispered. "Granddaughter of Julien." It was as terrible suddenly, as dismal and as endless as any fear in childhood, any moment of disconsolate gloom when she had hugged her knees and cried and cried, afraid to even open her eyes, afraid of the creaking house, afraid of the sound of her mother's moans, afraid of darkness itself, and the endless vistas of horror that lay in it. She forced herself to look down, to feel the moment, to feel the tile beneath her feet, and the fire's annoying and persistent flickering, to see his hands, so very white and heavily veined like those of an elderly person, and then to look up at the smooth, serene Christlike forehead with its flowing dark hair. Sculpted ridges for his sleek black eyebrows, fine bones framing his eyes, making them all the more vivid as they peered out at her. A man's jaw, giving force and shape to the lustrous close-cropped beard. "I want you to leave now," she said. It sounded so nonsensical, so helpless. She pictured the gun in the closet. She had always secretly longed for a reason to use it, she knew it now. She smelled the cordite in her memory, and the dirt of t...
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