good.
“Hello, Marla. I like your knife.” The voice was right next to her, closer than should have been possible—she hadn’t sensed anyone sitting next to her, and even immersed in her city sense, she shouldn’t have been
that
lax.
“Do I know you?” Marla opened her eyes and gave the stranger a deep look. He was young, handsome, dirty-blond, with that just-out-of-bed messy hairstyle that probably took way more work than Marla’s own ragged shag did. He was dressed in a nice dark suit and blue shirt, classy and not flashy, but he had on a gaudy array of rings, one on each finger, each with a different gleaming gemstone. He smelled like nothing at all, which was part of how he’d managed to sneak up on her.
“Not intimately,” he said. “Not yet. But you know my work. I’m Death. You can call me
Mr.
Death.”
“I used to know a goth kid back in Indiana who called himself Death,” Marla said. “He got run over by a semi. That’s what you’d call a self-fulfilling prophecy. You might want to reconsider your nickname.”
“Mmm. Why don’t you spare yourself grief and give me your pretty little knife?”
“Why don’t you take a flying leap off a cliff? Piss off. You’re crowding my space.”
He put his hand on her wrist. Well, that was that. Touching her was a no-no. She grabbed his hand, intending to put him in a vicious twisting joint-lock that would have him on his knees before her, crying.
Instead, to her surprise, everything whooshed, and people yelled, and she was looking up at the sky, and she
hurt.
She sat up—pretty fast, all things considered, thanks to her old friend adrenaline—and realized she’d been
thrown
from the bench, and crashed into the low wall on the far side of the walkway. How had he thrown her? How had he gotten any leverage, sitting beside her? He was still lounging on the bench, cool as you please, and most of the passersby had taken off running, which was a reasonable response to sudden violence.
Guess he’s a sorcerer.
Why couldn’t new guys in town ever just introduce themselves? They all had something to prove. Marla stood up. “Bad move, out-of-towner,” she said. “I turn people like you into compost.” She launched herself toward him, spitting out a spell of deflection as she went, so if he cast another spell, it would bounce off her and back to him. He didn’t move, and she leapt, ready to deliver a kick—with her magically reinforced steel-toed boots, no less—to his face.
He was up and out of the way faster than she could see, and before she even landed she reached into her pocket for the little vial of hummingbird blood she’d kept there. She crushed the vial, blood and glass stinging her hand, and all the light around her subtly blue-shifted as her metabolism and subjective time sense sped up a hundredfold. She couldn’t spend too much time in this state—the crash after extended use made coming off crystal meth seem gentle—but for now, it should make her an unstoppable fighting machine, faster than any other primate alive. She spun, and Mr. Death was lounging by the low wall behind her. Fast, but she was certainly faster. She raced toward him, ready to deliver a punch that, at this speed, would probably cave in several of his ribs, but he moved out of the way, which really shouldn’t have been possible. Marla nearly flew off the edge of the esplanade, which would’ve meant a long drop into the cold bay, but she corrected her course, landed in a crouch on the wall, and sprang back after him.
He swatted her out of the air nonchalantly, and she hit the ground hard enough to bounce. “This is silly.” His voice wasn’t the slowed-down drone it should have been; he’d somehow accelerated himself to match her. “Just give me the knife and I’ll be on my way.”
“You want the knife?” Marla drew her dagger of office and held it in a reverse grip, blade tucked up against her forearm. “You get the knife.” Fighting an unarmed man with
“Hello, Marla. I like your knife.” The voice was right next to her, closer than should have been possible—she hadn’t sensed anyone sitting next to her, and even immersed in her city sense, she shouldn’t have been
that
lax.
“Do I know you?” Marla opened her eyes and gave the stranger a deep look. He was young, handsome, dirty-blond, with that just-out-of-bed messy hairstyle that probably took way more work than Marla’s own ragged shag did. He was dressed in a nice dark suit and blue shirt, classy and not flashy, but he had on a gaudy array of rings, one on each finger, each with a different gleaming gemstone. He smelled like nothing at all, which was part of how he’d managed to sneak up on her.
“Not intimately,” he said. “Not yet. But you know my work. I’m Death. You can call me
Mr.
Death.”
“I used to know a goth kid back in Indiana who called himself Death,” Marla said. “He got run over by a semi. That’s what you’d call a self-fulfilling prophecy. You might want to reconsider your nickname.”
“Mmm. Why don’t you spare yourself grief and give me your pretty little knife?”
“Why don’t you take a flying leap off a cliff? Piss off. You’re crowding my space.”
He put his hand on her wrist. Well, that was that. Touching her was a no-no. She grabbed his hand, intending to put him in a vicious twisting joint-lock that would have him on his knees before her, crying.
Instead, to her surprise, everything whooshed, and people yelled, and she was looking up at the sky, and she
hurt.
She sat up—pretty fast, all things considered, thanks to her old friend adrenaline—and realized she’d been
thrown
from the bench, and crashed into the low wall on the far side of the walkway. How had he thrown her? How had he gotten any leverage, sitting beside her? He was still lounging on the bench, cool as you please, and most of the passersby had taken off running, which was a reasonable response to sudden violence.
Guess he’s a sorcerer.
Why couldn’t new guys in town ever just introduce themselves? They all had something to prove. Marla stood up. “Bad move, out-of-towner,” she said. “I turn people like you into compost.” She launched herself toward him, spitting out a spell of deflection as she went, so if he cast another spell, it would bounce off her and back to him. He didn’t move, and she leapt, ready to deliver a kick—with her magically reinforced steel-toed boots, no less—to his face.
He was up and out of the way faster than she could see, and before she even landed she reached into her pocket for the little vial of hummingbird blood she’d kept there. She crushed the vial, blood and glass stinging her hand, and all the light around her subtly blue-shifted as her metabolism and subjective time sense sped up a hundredfold. She couldn’t spend too much time in this state—the crash after extended use made coming off crystal meth seem gentle—but for now, it should make her an unstoppable fighting machine, faster than any other primate alive. She spun, and Mr. Death was lounging by the low wall behind her. Fast, but she was certainly faster. She raced toward him, ready to deliver a punch that, at this speed, would probably cave in several of his ribs, but he moved out of the way, which really shouldn’t have been possible. Marla nearly flew off the edge of the esplanade, which would’ve meant a long drop into the cold bay, but she corrected her course, landed in a crouch on the wall, and sprang back after him.
He swatted her out of the air nonchalantly, and she hit the ground hard enough to bounce. “This is silly.” His voice wasn’t the slowed-down drone it should have been; he’d somehow accelerated himself to match her. “Just give me the knife and I’ll be on my way.”
“You want the knife?” Marla drew her dagger of office and held it in a reverse grip, blade tucked up against her forearm. “You get the knife.” Fighting an unarmed man with
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