“Getting my body killed is no cause for despair or anything. In the first place, only one person’s ever really killed me. Well, plenty of people have killed my body, but I think I can count the number who’ve made me say uncle.”
She stared into space, as if reminiscing about the past, and loudly gnashed her teeth as she laughed.
“Let me see... I think Old Man Kishua was first. Saint-Germain the hedonist; the fairy-tale witch who lives forever — oh, I guessed it’s ‘lived’ forever now — then there was that rich bloodsucker in Monaco... and a teacher at some school who uses Godo Word, a super old dialect... and speaking of teachers, there were also my masters in magecraft, and...”
The litany of names and words made Faldeus, who was versed in every secret corner of magical society, wonder if it was some kind of joke. The final nickname out of Francesca’s mouth, however, sparked a particularly strong recollection in him.
“Oh! And that girl! Scar Red!”
