Blame It On the Nun

I’ve never been paid for arson, but the satisfying crackle and look of rapturous glee on the face of the lace-covered nun beside me mark this as one of my top jobs. Gray disappeared somewhere – as smooth and quiet as a windless tide – and we’re watching the Akheron’s front doors.

The nun clutches her sword against her chest, breath quick. “He’ll know it’s me. Akheron’s deciding whether to come out or go below.”

“Below?” Rach asks.

“He has a panic room.”

“What about his guests?”

“Oh, he’ll make them fend for themselves, don’t worry.”

The doors slam open.