“You’re a real asshole, Satanta. Just so we’re clear.”
I turned around and looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun, and saw her glaring at me from Blucifer’s saddle (to which I’d bound her with zip ties), before jerking the rein, tugging them after me.
“And here I thought you were different—if only for a minute,” she continued. “Boy, was I wrong!”
“And I thought you were—how did you say it? On a speech strike,” I said.
“I am,” she snapped. “I just needed to say that one thing. Again.”
We clip-clopped up S. Las Vegas Blvd, past the fairgrounds and a gaudy strip mall called the Bonanza, saying nothing, during which I found myself gazing at the sky lights—our ubiquitous friends since the Flashback—and noting how angry they seemed today, how inflamed; and noting, too, that Kesabe had not circled back in some time (for it was his tradition to run far ahead), a fact which was beginning to trouble me.
