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In that instant as his limbs were slowly melting to quaking masses of jelly and sparks seemed to race along every nerve, Harry figured that this was worth the beating he was probably about to get. Take that, Crayton Oakwood IV, you stone-brained son of a bitch!
Sherla raised her head and ran her tongue across her lips, power and pride and accomplishment all shining from her like rays of light.
Cray made a noise, somewhere between a rooster getting its neck wrung and a teakettle reaching the boiling point. His face was so clogged with blood that Harry wouldn't have been surprised to see his head explode.
Hearing that noise, Sherla turned, and saw, and froze.
Harry sat up. All he really wanted to do was lay there a while longer basking in the relief and contentment of the moment, but he reasoned that his skull being about the same size as a grassball and conveniently there on the floor might make Cray try to kick it through the window for a home-team goal.
Loresa, no fool, ducked out from under Cray's arm and sidled down the hall. Cray didn't even notice her leaving, his gaze fixed in disbelieving rage on Sherla.
Somehow, Harry thought, I doubt this is quite how Dorian intends for us to make use of her Gift ...
