A waterfall of jet-black hair, sky blue eyes; dressed in a custom-tailored, blinding white suit that Kazuo was sure had cost more than his first car, if not his first house.
Kazuo himself was still dressed for a show: motorcycle boots, leather pants, leather trench coat loaded down with chains, and entirely too many belts to be legal. It was a costume, but it sold tickets.
Kazuo had long ago decided that if he was going to make himself look like a clown for a living, he may as well be a well-dressed clown. He’d spent more money on the getup he was wearing than anyone would have wanted to admit.
This woman made Kazuo feel like a cheap fake.
“So . . .” Aurelia said, letting the word slither out of her mouth like poison, “. . . have you reconsidered my offer?”
Kazuo crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t know. You haven’t been exactly clear what you’re offering.”
“It’s nothing nefarious.” Aurelia raised her hands up in a defensive gesture. “I just heard from a few folks at your latest concert. You collect swords. Isn’t that right?”
Kazuo raised an eyebrow. “This is about wall decorations? Are you serious?”
Aurelia’s expression could have frozen a summer heatwave.
“Are you serious? You’re going to tell me you don’t know how to use your own weapons?”
* * *
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