Diana Pharaoh Francis - Crimson Wind (Horngate Witches)

Also by Diana Pharaoh Francis from Pocket Books

Bitter Night

Acknowledgments

THIS BOOK WAS A BEAR TO WRITE AND REVISE. THE STORY just wouldnt come out the way I wanted it to. So I want to thank everyone who talked me down off the ledge when I started looking wild-eyed and chattering about monkeys, dog biscuits, and flying dodos. Seriously, though, I really did get a lot of encouragement from a lot of people, as well as terrific feedback.

Thanks go specifically to: Jennifer Heddle, my wonderful and tough editor; Lucienne Diver, my erudite and thoughtful agent; Megan Schaffer, Christy Keyes, Missy Sawmiller, Barb Cass, all of whom read the book draft after draft; my family, who put up with my fits and my moods and my disappearances into the cave of my office; my parents, who took pictures of Weed for me; and finally, Ann Aguirre, who took time to read the book and give me pointed feedback that helped me finally figure out where the fractures were and fix them.

Thank you also to my readers. You mean so much to me and I thank you for giving my books your precious time. You are awesome.

As usual, Im sure I forgot to thank someone and I must apologize for my lapse. Even if your name isnt here, I am grateful.

Chapter 1

THE DREAM WAS NOT A DREAM. IT WAS A KIDNAP-ping.

Max struggled. She hung pendant and weightless in the abyss between worlds. Tatters of magic swirled like bright jewels in the black. They shimmered and billowed like silk rags, and they sliced like razors wherever they touched.

She twisted to avoid a swooping cluster that bunched and spiraled like a deadly flock of birds. A gauzy wisp of purple slid along Maxs hip, and she wrenched away from the liquid curl of acid that reached intimately down inside her, causing a fierce ache in a place beyond flesh and bone.

Max did not scream. She had done it just once, the first time Scooter had dragged her here. She wasnt going to give him the satisfaction ever again.

A force shoved her insistently toward the right. Scooter. The fucker. She yanked away from the pressure, tumbling in the darkness and into a cloud of gray magic. It clung to her with tenacious eagerness. It melted into her. Her heart pounded frantically as her healing spells kicked into high gear, drawing on her shallow reserve of calories from the food shed eaten before bed. It wouldnt be long until they began feeding on her flesh. If she couldnt wake herself up, she was going to die.

She hesitated, tempted to let herself stop fighting. He wanted her bad, and she was worthless to him dead. Shed love to see his face if he killed her.

But he wasnt the only one who needed her. The thought spurred her. She resumed her struggle.

Again the demanding push. She snarled and hauled back against it. She couldnt keep Scooter outshe couldnt keep him from attacking her every time she fell asleepbut she didnt have to let him push her around while he had her trapped here. She didnt care if he probably was a half-breed god.

Something like fear quivered deep inside her. She ignored it. She could panic later. And there would be a later. Shed make sure of it.

She felt his frustration like an explosion of quills drilling through her insides. They curved like hooks and ripped through her. Pain burned like nothing she had ever felt. She opened herself to it out of habit, letting herself relax into the boiling cauldron of agony. It filled her, drawing her down into its depths. Far away, her body twitched and went as still as death as Max embraced the pain. Her breathing slowed, her heart beat evenly. She felt her spectral self smiling with vicious triumph as she drew perverse strength from the hurt. It was a skill shed mastered the hard way. She refused to ever let anyone use her body against her, not if she could help it. And today she could.

Scooter hovered out of sight, waiting for her to capitulate. He prodded her again. It felt like shed been Tasered. Max snarled, wishing she could pummel him to bits. But there was no fighting him here. She didnt know how. But that didnt make her helpless.

With slow deliberation, she reached out to her body. She told herself to kick and thrash. On her bed far away, her physical self responded, sluggishly at first, then began to jerk and convulse. She redoubled her efforts, evading Scooter as he sought to shatter the connection. It was a race. If she could wake herself first, shed win.

Pain streaked from her hand to her arm, and Max woke. She lunged to her feet. Her ribs bellowed as she panted. Blood ran from a ragged three-inch gash that seamed across her palm. She closed her fist around it with a grim smile of triumph. For the last two weeks, every time she went to sleep, Scooter came for her, and every time, it was harder and harder to wake up and escape. This time, she had planned for it.

Max glanced down at the tack strips on the floor surrounding her mattress. Four-inch twenty-penny nails spiked from the wood in a six-inch-wide moat. Shed known that sooner or later as she struggled to wake, shed impale herself and the pain would give her the means to wake up. Above on the wall was a dream catcher. Or it had been. The center of it was shriveled and twisted, and the smell of burned leather and feathers filled the room. She grimaced. It had been a long shot. The shaman who made it was powerful but nothing like Scooter.