Wake of the Bloody Angel

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There’s a new client waiting to see you,” Angelina said when I entered her tavern.

I shook off the warm summer rain and ran my boots over the mud scraper. I had just returned to Neceda from a job escorting a wealthy but timid merchant through a war zone to visit his invalid mother; the fresh sword cut on my side itched something fierce around its stitches, and the dreary weather didn’t help. “Oh, goody,” I muttered, and ran a hand through my wet hair. “Do they look like they have money?”

Angelina stood behind the bar, clad as usual in a low-cut gown that showed off her, ahem, assets. She was a mature woman, roughly my own age, but she still-and probably always would-turned heads. Some sexiness is eternal. She said, “You should be grateful people actually want your services, you know.”

“I am,” I groaned. The tavern was empty except for the two of us, and whoever awaited me upstairs. “I just wish they didn’t want them today. I could use a little time to mend.”

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