E-Books: Clan Novel: RavnosKathleen Ryan
Wednesday, 28 July 1999, 7:54 PM Inside a small space At an unknown location
Khalil Ravana woke to hot, cramped, noisy darkness. As the day’s stupor faded, he became aware of pressure confining him from every direction — of his arms pinned tightly to his sides of legs bent, frozen, and unfeeling — of his neck forced down toward his chest — of toes and twisted hands supporting the weight of his body — of the friction of bare skin on some rough substance — of a hard, unyielding knob thrust uncomfortably against his chin Outside the tiny prison, he could hear thumps and thuds, muffled voices, and a gentle creaking sound. Khalil stretched himself, expanding to fill the last free space available.
The knob in his face ground uncomfortably up his jawline, and he recognized it for what it was: his own left knee. The Ravnos shrank himself down again, trying to feel his hands.
They weren’t tied... they could move, a little....
Suddenly, the gentle creaking stopped. Khalil felt himself come to a halt with it, realizing for the first time that it had been moving him along. He had roughly one second to think on that before his body, and the shell around it, tipped and slid down a long, skidding drop. He seemed to half-fall for an eternity, and the dried-up memory of his stomach complained.
The impact flipped him over. Instead of being hung limbs-downward in his shell, his head was now bottom-most. Jarring, shrieking vibration traveled up through the corner — he was coming to feel that his casket was oblong — and into his ears. Khalil shrugged off the jolt and noise. The shift in position had freed his hands a little more, and he groped eagerly around the confines of his world. There were rounded, bristly, soft protrusions covering the "walls." He pulled on one and the tip of it tore away in his hand. Foam.... He let the little fleck drop and explored further. Farthest from him, in a small clearing of the spongy bumps, he discovered a tiny handle, a metal latch, and a button. He pressed the last, and a soft light came on. A wave of relief poured over him.
He was inside a suit- or guncase, packed comfortably enough in gray eggcrate padding. He wished, fleetingly, that whoever had done the job had had a real trunk or a coffin handy, but considering the hurry his new ally had been in to leave Calcutta, this was first-class travel. Khalil peered up at the latch-yes, it opened from the inside. Hesha Ruhadze’s men were clever. Smuggling corpses from nation to nation — no trouble, apparently. The Setite had gone to sleep at the same time Khalil had — Hesha’s mere retainers, then, were competent to move contraband on a global scale and jury-rig accommodations for unexpected travelers at the last minute. Calcutta to Delhi, Delhi to London, London to Chicago... he added in time for layovers, and decided it was just now turning night in middle America. He nearly laughed out loud. The inexplicable rocking, the long drop, the squealing metal, the heavy noises from without — he must be on the baggage carousel in O’Hare already, bumping around with all the other luggage. Something fell on him from above, and his own case settled onto its edge. Both bottom corners shrieked now, but Khalil relaxed almost cozily in his foam cocoon.
Just a little longer, and one of the old snake’s boys would come pick him up, cart him through Customs safely, and take him out to join "partner" Hesha in some luxurious suite stocked with plenty of blood. Cold blood, Khalil thought wistfully, but free...
Blood...
Khalil was hungry. It went almost without saying. He’d nearly starved to death as an honest gypsy boy in India. He’d been merely hungry and poor after his family died and he turned to thievery. When the shilmulo — the vampire — adopted him, he’d had a month or two of >>>>>
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