Impressions by Doranna Durgin Read Free Book Online

dissolution, forever identifying them to family members by use of the specially developed long-nose. The lysosomic self-destruction upon death had inspired the development of the deathstone in the first place. No Tuingas went anywhere without a deathstone tucked into his stomach pouch behind the traditional sash…. The deathstone served not only as physical remains for family members, but a lingering memorial with impressions of the personality and death experience of the individual.
    To discover one thus, in the process of being rendered odorless, was sacrilege. Khundarr stiffened with his outrage. He quickly removed the stone from its bath, folding it into a heavily spell-inscribed leather wrapping that immediately muffled its emissions.
    And then he realized someone was watching him. His long-nose, almost overwhelmed by the scent of the liquid, twitched reflexively toward the stairs. Something there gave a squeak of fear and shrank more tightly into the shadows.
    A human. Possibly one of the humans who had done this abhorrent thing to a Tuingas deathstone. Khundarr growled deeply, knowing no single human was a match for a fully mature Tuingas, and no human could outwit a Tuingas long-nose no matter how he…no, this was a she…clung to darkness and crannies.
    But he knew the girl would not be alone. Something in this dwelling had killed the young one; something in here might be strong enough to kill him, too. And then there would be yet another stone—another raw stone—loose in this world that was not prepared to deal with the ones it already had.
    He tucked the temporarily protected stone into his own stomach pouch, growled a final invective toward the cowering creature near the stairs, and made his exit.

Chapter Four
    S leep was what Angel got…but not the quiet slumber he’d hoped for. He plunged instantly into dreams, dark and heavy and full of fury. Wesley stood before him, book in hand, lecturing on the finer points of translating ancient demon languages. Angel ripped the book from him and then ripped the book in half—and then reached for Wesley.
    No. That’s not right.
    Lorne warbled away on the stage of Caritas. “You like me, you really like me,” he said, full of emotion at the applause. Suddenly, badly rigged buckets of blood tipped over from above, showering Lorne in sticky redness. Lorne shouted, “Do the Dance of Joy!” and tipped his head back to lick his lips in glee—until Angel bounded onto the stage, shouting, “Mine! That’s mine !” and reached for Lorne—
    That’s really not right….
    Cordelia—
    Not Cordelia. Leave her alone!
    Cordelia, dressed in an absurdly skimpy costume, carrying an armful of industry magazines and wearing an exaggerated pout. “They don’t like me, none of them like me—” And then her eyes rolled back and she fell with a shriek, flinging magazines everywhere, shouting, “Vision! Vision! Vision!” until he couldn’t stand it anymore, all that guilt and resentment of guilt and the drama, and Angel reached for Cordelia—
    And his eyes flew open in the darkness of his bedroom. He didn’t bolt upright in bed. He just lay there, the tremble of his body made all the more obvious by the stillness of his heart and lungs. He stared into the darkness at the dim definition of the ceiling, and thought, Not again .
    Not again with the dreams, lurking in his nights and dragging at him during the day. Alienating him from his friends, turning his life into a living nightmare…
    And then he did sit up, resting his elbows on the sheets that covered his cross-legged knees, and realizing suddenly no, not again . This was not Darla, enticing him with a drugged mix of fantasy and reality. This wasn’t about luring him or manipulating him…
    They were simply nightmares. Outpourings of anger, channeled through sleep. Anger, he suddenly realized, that didn’t come from within. Some outside influence pounded at him, drawing on his own life, his own experience, to