Rage by Jackie Morse Kessler Read Free Book Online Page B

a tickle of contentment. Love washed over her in a gentle rain, only to burn her as it transformed into lust and, hotter still, ecstasy. On its heels came the soft chill of vulnerability, and the wrenching emptiness of shame.
    All of that and more, all in the space of one breath to the next.
    Missy's body jittered as the elations and sorrows of every living thing jolted through her like lightning. She tried to scream but couldn't do more than grit her teeth against the tidal wave of sensation.
    Control,
Death whispered in her mind.
    Control? That was a bitter joke. Proof of that was tattooed along her arms and legs and stomach.
    You cut yourself in reaction to an abundance of emotion,
Death said, unflappable.
Act instead of react. Control.
    Tears squeezed from her eyes as she pushed against the Sword, against the surge of emotion. It was like trying to hold back an avalanche with her fingers. She couldn't do this.
    "Of course you can," Death said aloud. "You have before."
    She thought of the glass jar of her heart, how it would bottle her rage and sorrow and aching embarrassment and allow her to swim through her life without being pulled under.
    Of
course
she could do this. She had been doing it for months.
    Snarling, she pushed once again, shoving the emotions back into the Sword. They flowed off her like wasps washed away in a sudden storm, stinging her even as they rushed past. By the time she was done, she was sweating freely and shaking like a junkie.
    And damn if she didn't feel
good.
    The Sword, perhaps in reaction to her catharsis, winked ... and transformed into a long silver sword with a flared cross guard. The hilt now sported a leather-wrapped handle, oxblood red, counterbalanced by a circular silver pommel.
    Grinning, Missy hefted the blade high. It was neither too heavy nor too light, and it felt as if it had been forged specifically for her hand.
    The Sword hummed in her grip, singing of blood and fury, of passion unrestrained. As she brandished it, the weapon showed her visions of the world tearing itself apart in its need to uncover a savior, images of a figure in red—of Missy—holding the Sword aloft like a beacon on a stormy night.
    Yes,
she thought joyously.
Yes.
That was the truth of it: everyone,
everything,
was filled with wants and needs and urges, and most people spent their lives denying themselves, talking themselves into stifling banality. They didn't realize how they were suffocating their potential until it was nothing more than a stillborn dream. With the Sword, Missy could show them the truth, and more. She could spread the gospel of war and lead them to enlightenment. They would meet their savior in a river of blood.
    She let out a ferocious laugh, one that left her throat raw.
    "Control," murmured Death.
    Oh, she was in control. More control now than ever before.
    His voice, like a caress: "Are you, now?"
    Yes.
    Her gaze was transfixed on the Sword, and she drew it close to her face. She saw herself reflected in the blade: her eyes shone wickedly, hinting of murder, and her smile was twisted into something grotesque. She blinked and the reflection vanished, replaced by the glimmer of cold steel.
    The dark vision acted like a splash of ice water, quickly sobering her. She dropped the Sword as if burned, and it landed on the blood-streaked carpet with a muffled thump. The Sword's image lingered behind her eyes, and she shuddered violently. She whispered, "What was that?"
    "You. Nothing more, nothing less."
    She turned to face Death, who was sitting up on her bed, watching her intently. Part of her squirmed from that considering gaze ... but another part of her, the one that had relished holding the Sword, enjoyed his attention. More than enjoyed it, based on her body's reaction. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her voice husky, she said, "That wasn't me."
    "You are War. The passions of all living things call to you, and you to them. And your own passions are more ... extreme." He