What are you doing, Anita? Requiem asked. That is not what I meant. I remembered the feel of smooth wood under small hands, my mother's coffin, the clove scent of carnations from the grave blanket. To say he smashed into me didn't come close to the impact of flesh on flesh.
She was pale, dark-haired, and scared. It is not my power that you are borrowing. He turned with a smile that was perilously close to a grin. She was covered by hands and a few well-placed pieces of cloth, but the illusion was that more skin was showing than really was.
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