bike
at that age, Gretchen had thought the tale was ludicrous.She did not believe in knights. Armed and armored beasts, yes. Knights, no.
So it was hardly surprising that she found nothing strange in the four bizarrely costumed boys who raced toward her on the most bizarre—and noisy—contraptions she had ever seen. Nothing.
Devils, perhaps. She was not afraid of devils.
She fingered the knife.
Chapter 18
The first thing Jeff Higgins saw clearly, in the chaos of the camp ahead of him, was the figure of a woman. Alone, among the hundreds of people shouting and scurrying about, she was standing still. Still, silent, and very straight. Her hands were tucked under her armpits, and she was staring at him.
Jeff’s motorcycle hit an unseen obstacle in the field, and he almost lost control of the bike. For a few frantic moments, he could concentrate on nothing else. Fortunately, his skill with a dirt bike was not much less than his boasts, and he kept himself from a very nasty spill.
When his eyes came up, he immediately looked for the woman.
She was still there. Still standing, still silent, and still staring at him.
There seemed to be no expression at all on her face, from what Jeff could tell at a distance. But something about her drew him like a magnet, and he steered his motorcycle toward her. Behind, his three friends followed faithfully.
Afterward, his friends would tease him about that instant reaction. But their jests were quite unfair. What drew Jeff toward her was simply that she seemed to be the one island of sanity in a world gone mad. A serene statue, towering over a horde of squealing people, scuttling through a rabbits’ warren of makeshift tents and shelters.
It wasn’t until he actually brought the bike to a skidding halt, not more than fifteen feet away, that he finally got a good look at the woman herself.
Goddam. She’s— Goddam.
He was suddenly overwhelmed by shyness, as he always was in the presence of very pretty young women. Especially tall young women with an air of self-confidence and poise. The fact that the woman in question was wearing a dress that was not much more than a collection of sewn-together rags, was barefoot, and had a streak of dirt on her forehead, didn’t matter