“I’m going to get a tad superstitious on you again. This sword . . . assuming, of course, you believe in local folklore . . . grants wishes. After a fashion.”
Kazuo raised an eyebrow. “After a fashion. Regular old genie in a bottle, huh?” He heaved a long-suffering breath. “Pretty sure I should head home. I got a thing.” He stood up, made to leave. “Take care of that car.”
Another flip, another flourish, and Woodsbane leaped into the open air. The blade, shining in the meager moonlight, was pitch black. Something about that blade—which could have been made of pure, liquid midnight—made Kazuo stop dead. He stared at it.
“Pretty boy, isn’t he?” Aurelia asked. She ran a finger along the quicksilver edge—the only part of Woodsbane that wasn’t as black as a witch’s heart. “I don’t really think you have to believe in the stories I could tell you about this weapon, if you’d rather not. Still worth a spot in your collection . . . don’t you think?”
“You wouldn’t approach me with this if that sword wasn’t worth a fortune,” Kazuo said. “I’m pretty much the only nutcase in this state who’d be willing to pay what that thing is worth. Why would you get rid of it?”
“If it were my choice, trust me when I say I wouldn’t.” Aurelia sheathed the sword. Kazuo let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “The decision to offer you this deal comes from a place so far above my pay grade that it scratches the ceiling of Heaven.”
Kazuo wiped his hands on his jacket. “Fine. I’ll bite. Let’s talk superstition.”
Aurelia grinned toothily. “. . . Now we’re getting somewhere.”
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