The hotel corridor's thick carpet clawed at Hal Harrower's feet, making him stumble. It was the carpet, not Hal. He wasn't drunk, just tired. Maybe still a little lightheaded from blood loss.
Rolling up the hood and windshield had left him covered in swollen bruises, purple against his bronze complexion. Nightshade had no idea how much he'd hemorrhaged. Too much no matter how much. He'd needed three dozen leeches to reduce the bruising to something he could hide.
Blood loss? It had seemed like a funny joke while he was on the cot, watching fat leeches slide along his mottled flesh. No, I know exactly where it is.
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