The Purloined Heart

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I knew she was trouble the moment I saw her walk into the bar.

She was tall, with long, red hair tied neatly back in a ponytail, wearing leathers cut to reveal her curves without interfering with her movements. Her short-sleeved shirt exposed a hint of cleavage and two tanned and muscular arms, one carrying the scars of an adventurer’s life. A sword hung from her belt, an expensive pistol resting right beside it.

She looked around the bar, saw me, and walked toward me with the air of someone who wouldn’t be denied. A drunkard grabbed her arse, and she punched him out without even looking at him. I guessed she had knuckledusters under her gloves. Or magic.

I studied her thoughtfully as she sat down facing me, her eyes studying me with equal interest. There was a tiny hint of magic surrounding her, far less than I’d have expected from a female adventurer. They tended to have magic of their own, or paid a sorcerer to layer protection spells over their bodies, or their adventures would come to a short, sharp, and humiliating end when they encountered a rogue magician. The basilisk scales woven into her leathers would give her a certain degree of protection, true, but any capable magician could easily work around them to swat her like a fly. Or turn her into one.

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