worthy of being the life-mate of Krysty Wroth, could feel threatened by a horny sixteen-year-old.
Ryan showed no sign of sexual interest in the baroness. Krysty could hardly have blamed him if he had. Though she was clearly into middle age, probably early fifties—which for many in the Deathlands, of course, was wretched and ragged old age—she showed a striking beauty, with just a hint of pink flush in her cheeks rescuing her from ice-sculpture frigidity.
Still, there was something...not right about Baroness Frost. Krysty’s intuition told her that the baroness harbored no ill intentions toward Ryan and the companions. All Krysty could sense in her was the overwhelming desire for them to save her daughter and return her safely home.
But something about her appearance and her manner—perhaps just a hint of greenish pallor in the shadows of her fine face—rang a discordant note in Krysty’s mind.
Ryan sat back in his chair, chin sunk to clavicle, thinking. Krysty’s heart went out to him, seeing how tired he was.
He polled the others with his eyes. Krysty nodded once, trying not to be too emphatic.
She glanced around. Doc shrugged and smiled vaguely, as if concurring; Krysty hoped he was still focused enough to realize what he was agreeing to. Jak looked skeptical. That wasn’t anything unusual for the albino youth. Had he felt any serious misgivings—beyond the ones he knew the others shared—he would have spoken up pretty briskly, as little as he liked to talk.
Ricky nodded so vigorously Krysty was half-surprised he didn’t sprain his neck.
“Fine,” Ryan said. “We’re in.” He rubbed his jaw. “Reckon it’s a better deal than we usually get.”
Chapter Seven
“This is the coast road, clearly.”
Ricky watched keenly as Baron Frost tracked the blunt tip of a finger from northeast to southwest down an old USGS contour map by the light of a combustion lamp. By smell Ricky could tell it was fueled by some oil other than kerosene. Nonetheless, it burned brightly. Or enough to do the job.
The room seemed to be a study of some sort. The walls were lined with shelves crowded with books, folios and rolled papers, some of which were maps, judging by the one the baron had unrolled on a drafting table. Ricky found the whole scene, made more mysterious by pervasive shadow, fascinating, though not as interesting as if it had been a workshop where things were actually made .
Ryan and Krysty stood across the table from the baron. Doc sat beside them. Ryan leaned on the table on the knuckles of one hand. Ricky, who sat in another chair a few feet away while Jak lounged against some shelves looking bored, tried not to stare at the redheaded woman’s rear end. It was hard.
He knew it was unwise. If Ryan ever bothered to notice the attention Ricky paid to Krysty, the one-eyed man might cut him loose from the group. For her part, Krysty treated his admiration with amused indulgence. Which, in a way, was worse.
Not that he would do anything to impede or disturb the lives of the two. And certainly those who did tended to wind up with dirt hitting them in the eyes in short order.
Ryan and Krysty formed a pantheon of living, walking gods for him—along with J.B., of course. The rest were important to him, too—the often vague yet often incisive Doc Tanner; the brusque yet deeply compassionate Mildred; his new best friend, Jak. But they couldn’t compare to the Big Three.
And now J.B. was hurt and fighting for his life. And they were finding out how they could buy it back—if that was even possible.
“The coast road’s pretty decent,” the baron was saying. “The baronies along the way tend to maintain it, and it’s mostly far enough inland that the eroding shoreline hasn’t encroached on it. But it’s not used as much as it might be. Travelers frequently prefer to make their ways along back trails farther inland, even though they’re not as good and it takes longer.”
“Weather?” Krysty
Ryan showed no sign of sexual interest in the baroness. Krysty could hardly have blamed him if he had. Though she was clearly into middle age, probably early fifties—which for many in the Deathlands, of course, was wretched and ragged old age—she showed a striking beauty, with just a hint of pink flush in her cheeks rescuing her from ice-sculpture frigidity.
Still, there was something...not right about Baroness Frost. Krysty’s intuition told her that the baroness harbored no ill intentions toward Ryan and the companions. All Krysty could sense in her was the overwhelming desire for them to save her daughter and return her safely home.
But something about her appearance and her manner—perhaps just a hint of greenish pallor in the shadows of her fine face—rang a discordant note in Krysty’s mind.
Ryan sat back in his chair, chin sunk to clavicle, thinking. Krysty’s heart went out to him, seeing how tired he was.
He polled the others with his eyes. Krysty nodded once, trying not to be too emphatic.
She glanced around. Doc shrugged and smiled vaguely, as if concurring; Krysty hoped he was still focused enough to realize what he was agreeing to. Jak looked skeptical. That wasn’t anything unusual for the albino youth. Had he felt any serious misgivings—beyond the ones he knew the others shared—he would have spoken up pretty briskly, as little as he liked to talk.
Ricky nodded so vigorously Krysty was half-surprised he didn’t sprain his neck.
“Fine,” Ryan said. “We’re in.” He rubbed his jaw. “Reckon it’s a better deal than we usually get.”
Chapter Seven
“This is the coast road, clearly.”
Ricky watched keenly as Baron Frost tracked the blunt tip of a finger from northeast to southwest down an old USGS contour map by the light of a combustion lamp. By smell Ricky could tell it was fueled by some oil other than kerosene. Nonetheless, it burned brightly. Or enough to do the job.
The room seemed to be a study of some sort. The walls were lined with shelves crowded with books, folios and rolled papers, some of which were maps, judging by the one the baron had unrolled on a drafting table. Ricky found the whole scene, made more mysterious by pervasive shadow, fascinating, though not as interesting as if it had been a workshop where things were actually made .
Ryan and Krysty stood across the table from the baron. Doc sat beside them. Ryan leaned on the table on the knuckles of one hand. Ricky, who sat in another chair a few feet away while Jak lounged against some shelves looking bored, tried not to stare at the redheaded woman’s rear end. It was hard.
He knew it was unwise. If Ryan ever bothered to notice the attention Ricky paid to Krysty, the one-eyed man might cut him loose from the group. For her part, Krysty treated his admiration with amused indulgence. Which, in a way, was worse.
Not that he would do anything to impede or disturb the lives of the two. And certainly those who did tended to wind up with dirt hitting them in the eyes in short order.
Ryan and Krysty formed a pantheon of living, walking gods for him—along with J.B., of course. The rest were important to him, too—the often vague yet often incisive Doc Tanner; the brusque yet deeply compassionate Mildred; his new best friend, Jak. But they couldn’t compare to the Big Three.
And now J.B. was hurt and fighting for his life. And they were finding out how they could buy it back—if that was even possible.
“The coast road’s pretty decent,” the baron was saying. “The baronies along the way tend to maintain it, and it’s mostly far enough inland that the eroding shoreline hasn’t encroached on it. But it’s not used as much as it might be. Travelers frequently prefer to make their ways along back trails farther inland, even though they’re not as good and it takes longer.”
“Weather?” Krysty
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