Boris L. Glebov
“Come off it, Valentine. Let bygones be bygones. We were partners once, right?” Samara smiled across the table, sweet and awkward. Valentine shifted uncomfortably. The left side of his face, colored in shades of purple and garnet, was covered in a grubby, blotchy bandage that made him look pitiful.
“You damn near caved my head in with that fire poker,” Valentine said unsteadily.
Samara dithered, but held on to her composure.
“You tried to feed me to some ancient evil. Even?” She tipped her face slightly downward.
It was not just the bandage—Valentine’s whole appearance, usually exacting in its neatness, was slipshod. His hands trembled and a sheen of sweat covered his face. Valentine struggled with and stumbled over words. His eyes darted about, but then he made anxiou
