"Our assignment doesn't concern you, though." Zanya looked down from the roof with an expression that first treated me like an insect that had wandered too close to the toe of her boot.
The dark-red bird tattoo beneath her left ear was clearly visible now that her ponytail had shifted.
Then the hardness in her face softened by a fraction. Maybe she had remembered that I was still useful for driving the wagon.
"Hawthorne already told you; we do not harm civilians… except it's absolutely necessary."
I now feared, with a cold and specific fear, what counted as "absolutely necessary" in the eyes of the New Testament.
She jumped down, closed her fingers around my wrist, and pulled me firmly back toward the driver's seat with a strength that left no room for argument or delay.
Once I was seated again and the reins were back in my hands, she continued speaking, her tone instructional, as if she were explaining a simple rule of the road.
