The sword Aurelia offered was an old-fashioned katana. The gleaming scabbard had a wood finish. The handle was wrapped in black. Its pommel proudly bore a skull, grinning up at the world; nestled in its sockets were two twin, pentagonal-cut, red gemstones. Kazuo screwed up his face. “This a joke? Figure hey, the Japanese kid must like the emo ninja sword?”
“He didn’t always look like this,” Aurelia said, completely unruffled. “The jury’s out on how much of the original metal is actually still in him, to give you the . . . honest-to-goodness.”
“Him?” Kazuo’s irritation vanished in idle confusion. “Heard of giving weapons personalities before, but . . . always figured they were like ships. ‘She.’ ‘Her.’ That whole deal.”
Aurelia grinned. “I don’t do typical. Especially regarding the gender norms of weapons.”
“Yeah, I’m gettin’ that.” Kazuo sighed again, ran his hands through his hair again, clenched both hands into fists again. “So . . . Woodsbane. Sounds like an old soldier.”
“He’s been around.”
Kazuo strolled over to the car, leaned against the hood. “Tell me, then. Aurelia. First time you talked to me, you said you had something that would help me. I’m assuming you were talking about the same thing you’re talking about now.”
“I am.” Aurelia suddenly tossed the weapon in the air with the flourish of a trained performer, caught it, and presented the hilt to Kazuo. He hesitated. “Smart man,” she said. “You’re going to want to wait before you take this from me. There’s some red tape.”
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