"Yeah."
"I'll save you the trouble." She stared into his face solemnly and
slowly opened her mouth. From beneath her tongue, a barb slowly
protruded until its point projected several inches from her lips.
Morgan shivered.
* * * * *
The Negro, who was sitting rigidly frozen, suddenly dove for his
pitchfork with a wild cry. "Witcherwoman! Oren-stinger!"
Shera darted aside as the pitchfork sailed toward her and shattered
the window. She seized it quickly and held him at bay. The old man
looked startled. Orenians tried to sting, not to fight.
"Hold it!" bellowed Morgan.
Reluctantly, the oldster backed away and fell into the chair again.
But his eyes clung to the girl with hatred.
"She stung ya, suh?"
"No, and she won't sting you." He gazed at Shera coldly. "Drop that
fork."
She propped it against the wall but stayed close to it. "Okay,
Morgan," she purred. "It's your show."
"It's going to be yours. Sit down and tell us everything that happened
before you were stung and after. I want to figure out what makes you
different from the others, and why you aren't in liaison with Oren."