Exams, no girlfriend, a cantankerous grandfather - George has it tough. And that's even before the assassins come for him, he discovers the magical sword stashed in the attic, and finds out he's responsible for saving a world he didn't even know ex...
The commotion from upstairs only confirmed what Vardun had already sensed; the Blade was near, back from wherever it had been hidden. He smiled pleasantly at Marie, held captive in an armchair by the henchman standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder and the other holding his knife to her throat.
"It would appear that my vassal has encountered your son. No doubt he's killing the young fellow, right at this very moment."
Despite the knife, Marie made to get up, drawing blood before the henchman shoved her violently back into the chair. "He's just a boy, you monster. Leave him alone!"
"I'm afraid I can't do that, my dear lady. As pathetic as I'm sure he must be, he is a potential threat to my plans. I do not tolerate threats—I eliminate them."
Again, the pinioned woman struggled to rise, but the vice-like grip holding her down was too strong. She sobbed. "Who the hell are you people?"
"That's rather a long story; far too long to bother to relate to someone who will quite likely be dead soon. It would be such a waste of my time. Let's just say we're related by marriage. Now, be silent."
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Ignoring Lob's constant stream of advice as to where he should stab him and/or which bits he should chop off, George locked the whimpering henchman securely in an old wardrobe. Cautiously, he opened the hatchway cover and started to descend.
"Good luck, mate," said Lob. "I'm more cut out for the sword-minding side of things, rather than the actual sword-fighting, so I'll just stay put and keep an eye on things up here for you. Just remember, use the pointy bit, lad, the pointy bit. Cupboards are all well and good, but when it comes to evil bastards, coffins are better."
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Pushing aside a packet of incontinence pads, the federal agent placed his tablet on the desk he'd commandeered from the nursing home's night supervisor. Frowning, he scanned the preliminary reports on the IDs of the attackers.
Facial recognition—zip.
Fingerprints—zero.
Dental records—zilch.
DNA—not a damn thing.
Six corpses, without so much as a single identifying feature among the lot of them. It was unprecedented. He sighed and flicked to the report on the apparent single victim of the attack.
