Under his skinny frame there was steel coiled muscle, hard and compact. She felt this with his embrace, half hug, half trap. Subconciously she recognized the danger within and knew he was not a man she wished to cross. Yet she felt something new and far more exciting titillated her senses and filled her head with wonder. She sucked in his scent before he drew away. Rough hands gripped her thin but growing shoulders and she stared up at him with cat’s eyes wide and not yet old enough to be wise—but they gleamed with the threat of cruelty she had not yet recognized within herself. She had practiced it, oh yes; with every animal she caught and toyed with before they died.
She remained still as he spoke, listening to the words and his tone, observing even as he reinforced her success. With a smile to match his own, the girl held out the jar she had carried in her hand since the night before. The jar was small and milky, with a handwritten piece of paper wrapped around the base. It had been kept on by some sort of glue; Salvia was too young to understand how the task had been done. The black ink spelled out what it contained, عراف للحكيم scrawled in what looked to be ornate scribbles, was foreign and unknown.
“I found their medic’s room,” she explained, passing the jar to him. “This is from it.”
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