The Wind in my Heart
Then I’m growling and biting Tien’s ear and he’s screaming and my claws are wrapped around his wrist, struggling to point the gun he’s holding away from the door where Jigme Rinpoche is stepping through.
The gun discharges again and a bullet bores into the hollow of my shoulder, a molten drop of flame. I crush his hand in mine and it goes off again. I feel the recoil in my bones. Tien’s fingers go slack, the gun clatters to the pavement, and I’m plunged into memory’s pool, swimming in blood—mine, the assassin’s, and all the gallons I’ve ever spilled. In Chinatown, Panama, Tibet. In this life and countless others from beginningless time.
Bab Populer