the smuggler’s bible

Iseult

It’s a slog to get across town at rush hour, but Iseult is fearless in the face of oncoming traffic. She knows the intersections where a stoplight can be fudged by up to four seconds and (more importantly) the ones which don’t play fuck around.

At the hotel, she takes the stairs to the thirteenth floor, where the elevators don’t run.

“All right,” she says to the man in the hall, “show me.”

“This one’s for real, Iseult. The manifestation litmus pulled red. Dark.”

“So instead of talking,” she says, sliding brass knuckles over her fingers, “let’s deal with it.”