Shooting the Rift - eARC Read Online Free PDF

Not entirely, of course; the hallway was bustling with party-goers heading in towards the dance floor and the buffet, or outside for fresh air and the quiet exchange of confidences. Mother was only a few feet away, but too engrossed in the perpetual game of status chess with her guests to take any notice of me, and Dad had vanished entirely, for which I could hardly blame him.
    “So what are your plans now?” Carenza asked, oozing uncomfortably into my personal space, and assaulting my nostrils with her cloyingly floral pomade.
    I took a step back. “Get a fresh drink,” I said, gulping the contents of my glass, and turning away towards the salon.
    “Capital notion,” she said, falling into step beside me, disingenuously steadying herself against the flow of the crowd with a hand on my backside as she did so. I twitched away irritably, and she grinned, daring me to comment. “I could do with one too.”
    “Allow me,” I said, hoping the gritting of my teeth hadn’t become too audible over the cat-strangling sounds from the ceilidh band currently murdering “The Dashing White Sergeant.” The crush around the drinks table was greater than I’d expected, but surely not dense enough to push Carenza quite so close. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy close physical contact with the opposite sex as much as the next man (if he’s straight), but damn it all, a fellow likes to be asked first.
    “Sparkling wine, if you’ve got a decent vintage,” Carenza said, draping herself around me, which she seemed to think essential to communicate clearly with the caterer standing a handful of inches the other side of my center line. The lad nodded, no doubt used to being addressed like a vending drone, and reached for a bottle. “And another for my companion.”
    “I’ll have an apple brandy,” I said, irked at her presumption. And God knew, I could use it then.
    “You’re not wasting any time,” Carenza said, a moue of amusement quirking her lips. She sipped at her wine, managing to convey that it was mildly disappointing but no worse than she’d expected, without saying or doing anything I could plausibly take sufficient offence at to leave.
    Then the brownian motion of the circulating guests opened an unexpected gap at my elbow, into which I slipped, momentarily increasing the distance between us to something more comfortable; but a heartbeat later Carenza slithered into the space I’d just vacated, and immediately resumed her impression of a limpet. To hell with subtlety, I decided.
    “I need some fresh air,” I said, forging my way through the crush towards the open terrace. “If you’ll excuse—”
    “Good idea.” Carenza was one of those people who wouldn’t recognize a hint if it came gift-wrapped with HINT embossed on the ribbon. She dumped her suddenly empty glass on an occasional table by the door. “Let’s get a little privacy.”
    At which point I realized I’d made a fundamental tactical error. The terrace was far less crowded than the salon, and full of shadowed corners between the rows of potted shrubs which had been placed out here to afford guests intent on discussing personal affairs (or in some cases conducting them) the privacy they required. No sooner had we gained the cool of the evening air than a tug on my elbow propelled us into a lurking rose arbor, effectively screening us from the house.
    “Carenza, stop it.” I detached her hands from my posterior, juggling my drink to pry them free one by one, only to feel them clamp back into place again a second later. Her breasts compressed against my chest, and a wine-marinated tongue thrust itself between my teeth, choking off my automatic protest. The biomonitor embedded in my neuroware activated automatically as our saliva mingled, assuring me that she was free of any sexually transmitted diseases or significant genetic defects, but that was hardly the point at the moment.
    Almost without conscious volition, my open hand went to the nape of