How do you cope with learning that your mother was murdered before you were born, your father is a fairy hitman, and you wield the power to raise an army of devoted love slaves... except you haven't the least idea how to control it?
Tom Corwen's di...
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A tall, swarthy man with wavy, salt and pepper hair stepped out of a shiny, red Camaro and brushed ash off the leg of his moleskine trench. Bloody nuisance, he thought. touching his forehead where it had met the windshield, but his hand came away clean and he grunted in satisfaction.
The car was less fortunate. Its right quarter panel had been torn off and lay in the street a dozen yards behind him, reflecting fractured light from streetlamps and cheap neon signs, like the flickering of a thousand candles. In the loving care of a skilled mechanic, the engine might again function properly, but it didn't suit his purpose today and that rendered it worthless.
He withdrew a pack of Davidoff cigarillos from an inner pocket. The first was broken and he discarded it with a curse, but the second was whole and he casually lit the tip with a gold lighter and drew in a lungful of acrid smoke. The smell reminded him of dried keffene ferns, sprinkled over signal fires for their distinctive blue flames. It reminded him of home.
He ran weathered fingers through his styled hair and shook his head to give it the playful, tousled look he favored, then stroked his chin to smooth a neatly trimmed beard. First impressions were important. The thought made him chuckle. Tugging at the lapels of his long coat, he stepped briskly toward a second vehicle, inhaling deeply from the cigarillo.
The Honda had absorbed the worst of the collision, its passenger door now a concave mass of torn and wrinkled metal. A wet mat of dark hair dripped streams of red from a white web of shattered glass marking the moment a man's life had ceased. He knew from the smell it had been a man and that he was dead, but there was another scent in the air, like a field of dandelions after a spring rain. He circled the wreck to the driver's door, rested a forearm on the open window, and peered inside.
"Sorry about that." He smiled at the woman behind the wheel. She coughed, crying quietly, still in shock and pain and swimming in fear. Some of the blood she wore was hers. Her right arm hung limp, bent awkwardly at the elbow. She turned her pale face toward him, shaking uncontrollably.
"Help me," she wept, her voice barely audible.
"Yeah, see," He started to reply, then took another drag. "I have someplace to be, and this little fender-bender's gonna seriously fuck with my schedule. That your husband?" He indicated the gory mess next to her.
She didn't turn to look, but she nodded faintly while grief and blood ran down her chin. "Please," she mouthed but made no sound.
"I hope his suit was a rental." the man said through grinning teeth. "That's a nice dress by the way. Bit slutty if you're taken, though. Might give a guy the wrong idea. 'Course, that won't matter now." He chuckled at his own joke as the woman choked out another sob.
The man stood upright and inhaled once more, looking around. There were no spectators, which was lucky, but someone would drive by soon, then the police would come and they'd delay him more than he could afford. In the distance, through the cursed darkness, a bridge marked the edge of the city and another long stretch of lonely highway. He straightened his black and orange Stefano Ricci necktie before leaning back down, bracing his hands on his knees.
