Inca Kings

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Kenzie sat as demure and coyly as she was able, practically having to sit on her right hand which had begun twitching about ten minutes ago — just two minutes after she’d walked into this auction house — as it craved for the welcome weight of the hefty katana she preferred to be sheathed over her left shoulder. It wasn’t just an idle craving.

Some of these assholes, they needed to see the glint of that blade, to blink in terror as the razor edge gleamed, to experience that touch of dread as the perfect steel rose before them.

Kenzie managed to hold in an unladylike snort. Pretentious, wealthy assholes.

It could be said that Kenzie harbored more than a single grudge against those in authority and those that had the power and affluence to sway them. But the katana would cut through all that, right here, right now — and put her in prison forever.

Somehow, she calmed herself.

The auction house sat right in the middle of Paris, along the magnificent Champs Élysées, inside a nineteenth century hotel built by one of France’s richest families. Kenzie saw glitz everywhere; from the gilded chandeliers to the ornate doors and paneling, and the glowing wall sconces. A soft hue illuminated the large room and the noise of conversation drowned out all other noise.

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