Her blue eyes flicked up and down my body; it wasn’t on purpose, it was just something she did. A tick.
“The Devil’s Spade,” she finished, seeming to shiver at its very mention. “The Ark of the Old Ones.” She looked at the glass-strewn floor. “Aware, yes. Familiar with—no. Hespa says it is pure evil and that to touch it would be certain death.” Her expression changed abruptly, from seriousness to outright horror. “But what on earth is it you intend?”
Again the eyes—bedroom eyes, with a life and animus of their own.
“I—we ...” I found myself hesitating, in part because I was unsure how to put it, but mostly because I was becoming increasingly intrigued, increasingly allured; to the point that I was losing my focus on what mattered—which was the liberation of my accoutrements (as well as
