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Liam couldn’t allow that

to happen.

*

“Hello?” Kris stepped inside.

No one answered. Had she really thought they would?

Her gaze swept the living area and kitchen; she peered into the shadowy bedroom and bath. From where she stood, she couldn’t see any mad killers lying in wait.

But that was the thing about mad killers. They never let you see them until it was too late.

Kris let out a shaky laugh. The last time she’d checked, mad killers didn’t fix broken doors.

A shiny new key lay on the counter. But no note had been left identifying the culprit.

The sole explanation was Liam. He’d broken the door; he was the only one who knew about it besides her. He’d either fixed it or told Rob Cameron to do so.

She was still going to explore the bedroom and bathroom.

“And I’m taking my gun with me,” she announced, yanking open the drawer of the coffee table, relieved to find the weapon still in residence.

Taking it along as she’d promised, Kris strode to the bathroom and slammed the open door against the wall as hard as she could. No one yelped. Or shot her. She did the same to the bedroom door, with similar results.

A cavity search—shower, closets, darkness beneath the bed—revealed no bodies, live or dead, unless you counted the bugs.

She had to say, having the gun in her hand made her feel better. Of course if anyone had leaped out, they could have grabbed the thing easily from her hand. If she didn’t drop it first and shoot off a toe.

That accomplished, Kris pocketed the key, locked the front door, put the gun back where she’d found it, and turned on her computer.

She tried to raise Mandenauer. It was like raising the dead. Impossible unless you knew how.

Kris rubbed her eyes again. What was wrong with her? There was no “knowing how” to raise the dead. All that talking with Jamaica about magic and sacrifice and ancient religions was screwing with her brain.

She almost wished she would hear Mandenauer calling her name from the computer. She bet he knew all there was to know about Obeah.

But the computer remained just a computer, so Kris cracked her knuckles and began to surf.

Most of what she discovered Jamaica had already told her. There seemed to be a dearth of info on Obeah, which was most likely a result of the respect—i.e., fear—in which it was held. Considering that many in Jamaica considered Obeah to be a dangerous form of sorcery and refused to even speak the word out loud, it followed that those who knew the most about it—Jamaicans—were not being interviewed for scholarly books, Web sites, or seminars.

She did find one thing when she tried a search on sacrifice, witches, and power. She didn’t much like it.

“The more you give, the more you shall receive,” she read. “The greater the sacrifice, the greater the gift of power.”

At first she considered that meant sacrifice an elephant, you were in damn good shape. Unless the poacher patrol found you. Then you were fucked. As you should be.

But the more she uncovered, the more she read about just what a sacrifice meant, the more Kris figured they were talking about something other than size, and it scared her.

“Intelligence,” Kris muttered. “Ferocity. Cunning. If they’re easy to kill, what kind of a sacrifice is that?”

Therefore, the harder the life was to end, the greater the gift to the god.

So a lion netted more oomph than a lamb. A gorilla more juice than a mouse.

“And a person…” Kris lifted her eyes to the window, through which she could see the distant drift of the dirt-shaded loch. “That’s gotta light you right up.”

She was letting her imagination run away with her. Something she’d never been accused of until she came here. Kris dealt in facts. Facts never lied.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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