It takes a surprising amount of courage to place one's hand into an unseen area when your mind is thinking about vermin.

He does not start guiltily, as he should, but frowns in annoyance. "Who are you?" I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. "Vengeance," I say softly.

This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.

I have found it is surprisingly difficult to remain sad when a cat is doing its level best to sandpaper one's cheeks.

The pain of hope dying is worse than his fists and boots.

And just as love has two sides, so too does Death. While Ismae will serve as His mercy, I will not, for that is not how He fashioned me. Every death I have witnessed, every horror I have endured, has forged me to be who I am -- Death's justice.

I will sit here but an hour or two, then leave." I yawn. "So very long as that?" When he answers, there is a wry note in his voice. "I do have my reputation to protect.