And so it is with us; we serve as handmaidens to Death. When we are guided by His will, killing is a sacrament.

If he is smart, he will run. He is not.

However, there are those who deserve to die but who have not yet encountered the means to do so—we help them on their way.

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.

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

Do you need anything before I go? I want you to return my wits, I long to say.

We are all of us, gods and mortals, made up of many pieces, some of them broken, some of them scarred, but none of them the total sum of who we are.