“They’s coming, Miss Dessie!”
“I know. I sensed it.”
When Desdra Von Cleef ran a brush through her waist-length, jet-black hair, her hand trembled, not that her distraught servant would have noticed. Outwardly, Desdra barely flinched at the tidings, but she could feel the blood rampaging through her veins, pulsing beneath her skin like a lover’s hungry caresses. Indeed, these sensations in her body had started several days earlier when reports began filtering to the plantation from out of the west. And in her dreams and in every waking moment, Desdra had felt the approach of the men deep in her soul, like the persistent ache of arthritis in an old woman’s limbs.
“And what is their number, Narcissa? Any reports?”
“Thousands upon millions,” answered the housekeeper, her eyes rounding in
