The migraine when it hit had forced Kitara to retreat to total darkness. She had never been so thankful for the blackout curtains hanging from her window. Even the tiniest hint of light stung like a white-hot poker searing her brain. Never had using her gifts caused her so much pain. Even after rest, her mind was still wrung out like an old rag. She hoped never to have to do that again. When the worst of the headache subsided she glanced over to the clock on the night stand. Three p.m.! She’d slept most of the day – if you could call burrowing under the covers and moaning pitifully while clutching your head ‘sleep.’ Pain or no, she had to force herself out of bed. Kitara stumbled to the small coffee pot and started to brew the little pouch the hotel had provided her. She’d find real coffee as soon as she could, but this Colombia’s Best would have to do. Her memory had been hazy when she’d arrived back at her room, but she recalled there was supposed to be an old gothic church.
