Downstairs, Morag was sipping on a bottle of vodka she must have found somewhere in her search. Another bottle dangled from her free hand.
“Want some?” she offered, shooting daggers at my companion as she looked her up and down. Before either of us could reply, a door opened behind her and a Horseman took a step into the hallway. He was wearing earphones attached to a Walkman at his belt, and was looking down while he zipped himself up. Morag spun round as he moved forward, the movement catching his attention. His right hand left his crotch and whipped up towards a shoulder holster. He was fast. But Morag was still spinning. Her arms swung out from her sides, propelled by centrifugal force, and one of the bottles exploded against the man’s face, sending him flying back into the toilet.
She tossed the other bottle towards me as she leaped after the shattered biker. I dove forward to catch it, and by the time I’d regained my balance she was closing the door behind her.
“Time we were somewhere else.”
Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning
Till next time. Cheers.
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