27
The sensation that had been simmering under my skin and centered in my solar plexus burst inward and outward simultaneously. I dropped to my knees and shook my head to clear the roaring from my ears. Then I recognized the roar for what it was and picked it apart into individual sounds—the heartbeats of the Council members, their chairs scraping across the stone floor under the rug, the rug fibers as they bent and straightened under the weight of chair legs and shoes, and underneath it all, the satisfied growl of Bartholomew Campbell.
“Do you know what he will be?” Tabitha’s frightened whisper floated to me on the stream of other sounds.
“I’m hoping he will be like his father, who was a phenomenal fighter,” Morena’s reply came next.
“Yes, Simon McCord was a fine specimen,” Keith agre
