crotch.
Teasing now, moving closer, petting a tight, hot leather bulge.
“You know just the spot, baby,” Johnny said, thigh muscles tightening.
And she did.
The Merc headed northwest, a blood clot pumping down a dark vein of highway. The sultry smells of the desert—windswept canyons, gnarled mesquite, sun-baked earth—rushed through the open windows and wrapped around Kyra like cool-scented sheets on a summer’s night. Life is good, she told herself, digging her dark polished fingernails into Johnny’s hard thigh. The black bird’s fucked, and life is good.
And life—eternal life —was what all this was about. Living for- fucking-ever, and then some. That was the concept, soon to become a reality, and for the first time the absolute inevitability of the whole idea slammed Kyra in an unadulterated rush that was more intoxicating than any chemical high ever experienced by mere mortals.
“This is sweet.” Kyra grinned deliciously, ran both hands through her long scarlet-black tresses. “Fucking sweet!"
Johnny grinned back, let out a whoop of pure exhilaration. “Hold on!” he screamed as he floored the accelerator.
Kyra thought: It doesn't take much to get Johnny Church’s testosterone pumping. Guns, girls, and ammo . . . and a little thing called immortality.
No, it doesn’t take much at all.
Kyra’s thoughts turned to the black bird . . . perhaps just so much roadkill back there on the highway. Even if the Crow still lived, it couldn’t harm her now. She wouldn’t let it. She was too close to her dream. And she was too smart for the bird, and—
Screw the Crow, Kyra thought. She wasn’t going to waste another second thinking about it. Because on a night like this, anything was within Kyra Damon’s reach. On a night like this, she knew she would live forever. . . .
But there was another passenger on Kyra and Johnny’s road trip to immortality—a cursed counselor Kyra had found long ago, one who was fated to be her guide—and he was determined to have his say, as well.
“It’ll take more than a little hellfire to stop the Crow,” said the shrunken head. “Mark my words—it’ll be back, and soon.”
Kyra glared at the desiccated thing suspended from the rearview mirror. “You’re getting a really smart mouth, Raymondo.”
“Maybe I am. But maybe you’re head’s swelling a little bit, Kyra.”
“Shut your dead mouth, Raymondo.” Johnny’s voice was a barbed-wire rasp. “Ky knows what she’s doing.”
“Please, Johnny,” Raymondo said. “This is an adult conversation. You’d do better to keep your eyes on the road . . . and slow down a little bit. All the speed in the world won’t stop the Crow, and this highway isn’t a racetrack, nor is it the set of Speedway, Hot Rods to Hell, Death Race 2000, or—”
Johnny sucked a hard breath and floored the accelerator.
“Fuck you,” he told the head.
“No, fuck you,” Raymondo retorted.
Kyra shook her head. “Hey Johnny, you think maybe we should have left Raymondo in the window of that antique shop in New Orleans?”
“If you had, you’d both be in serious shit now,” Raymondo said. “Or maybe you’re somehow unperturbed by the idea of a Night of the Living Dead castoff tearing through that sweet cheetah-skin upholstery covering the backseat.”
Johnny snorted.
“Here’s the way I see it, Johnnyboy,” Raymondo went on, warming to the subject. “After the ambulating dead man chews his way through your precious upholstery, he’ll no doubt hand you a one-way ticket to eternity.”
Johnny swore. “What kind of shit are you shovelin’ now, shortcake? How’s some dead man gonna get to me when I know he’s comin’—”
“Let me tell you, Johnny. He’ll get to you because that’s the only thing in the world he wants to do. That’s a requirement of vengeance, eternal-style, and nothing less will satisfy the Crow. That dead cowboy will do you like no one’s ever been done before. He’s going to bash
Teasing now, moving closer, petting a tight, hot leather bulge.
“You know just the spot, baby,” Johnny said, thigh muscles tightening.
And she did.
The Merc headed northwest, a blood clot pumping down a dark vein of highway. The sultry smells of the desert—windswept canyons, gnarled mesquite, sun-baked earth—rushed through the open windows and wrapped around Kyra like cool-scented sheets on a summer’s night. Life is good, she told herself, digging her dark polished fingernails into Johnny’s hard thigh. The black bird’s fucked, and life is good.
And life—eternal life —was what all this was about. Living for- fucking-ever, and then some. That was the concept, soon to become a reality, and for the first time the absolute inevitability of the whole idea slammed Kyra in an unadulterated rush that was more intoxicating than any chemical high ever experienced by mere mortals.
“This is sweet.” Kyra grinned deliciously, ran both hands through her long scarlet-black tresses. “Fucking sweet!"
Johnny grinned back, let out a whoop of pure exhilaration. “Hold on!” he screamed as he floored the accelerator.
Kyra thought: It doesn't take much to get Johnny Church’s testosterone pumping. Guns, girls, and ammo . . . and a little thing called immortality.
No, it doesn’t take much at all.
Kyra’s thoughts turned to the black bird . . . perhaps just so much roadkill back there on the highway. Even if the Crow still lived, it couldn’t harm her now. She wouldn’t let it. She was too close to her dream. And she was too smart for the bird, and—
Screw the Crow, Kyra thought. She wasn’t going to waste another second thinking about it. Because on a night like this, anything was within Kyra Damon’s reach. On a night like this, she knew she would live forever. . . .
But there was another passenger on Kyra and Johnny’s road trip to immortality—a cursed counselor Kyra had found long ago, one who was fated to be her guide—and he was determined to have his say, as well.
“It’ll take more than a little hellfire to stop the Crow,” said the shrunken head. “Mark my words—it’ll be back, and soon.”
Kyra glared at the desiccated thing suspended from the rearview mirror. “You’re getting a really smart mouth, Raymondo.”
“Maybe I am. But maybe you’re head’s swelling a little bit, Kyra.”
“Shut your dead mouth, Raymondo.” Johnny’s voice was a barbed-wire rasp. “Ky knows what she’s doing.”
“Please, Johnny,” Raymondo said. “This is an adult conversation. You’d do better to keep your eyes on the road . . . and slow down a little bit. All the speed in the world won’t stop the Crow, and this highway isn’t a racetrack, nor is it the set of Speedway, Hot Rods to Hell, Death Race 2000, or—”
Johnny sucked a hard breath and floored the accelerator.
“Fuck you,” he told the head.
“No, fuck you,” Raymondo retorted.
Kyra shook her head. “Hey Johnny, you think maybe we should have left Raymondo in the window of that antique shop in New Orleans?”
“If you had, you’d both be in serious shit now,” Raymondo said. “Or maybe you’re somehow unperturbed by the idea of a Night of the Living Dead castoff tearing through that sweet cheetah-skin upholstery covering the backseat.”
Johnny snorted.
“Here’s the way I see it, Johnnyboy,” Raymondo went on, warming to the subject. “After the ambulating dead man chews his way through your precious upholstery, he’ll no doubt hand you a one-way ticket to eternity.”
Johnny swore. “What kind of shit are you shovelin’ now, shortcake? How’s some dead man gonna get to me when I know he’s comin’—”
“Let me tell you, Johnny. He’ll get to you because that’s the only thing in the world he wants to do. That’s a requirement of vengeance, eternal-style, and nothing less will satisfy the Crow. That dead cowboy will do you like no one’s ever been done before. He’s going to bash
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