French traffic cops were renowned for strictness, and Matt prayed none saw them barreling down the twisting highway. The patched bullet holes might pass a careless glance, but if anyone saw inside, saw the blood-soaked floor, Susumu unconscious on the bench seat, human bodies wrapped in a tarp in the back, one missing his head... Matt tried not to think what might happen to that policeman. He glanced over at Luiza, protectively clutching Kazuo’s sword...no...her sword, as if someone might try to take it from her. She ran her thumb absently over the clover-like hand guard, following the rim’s decorative dips and rises. Luiza said the sword had called her, that it missed Kazuo, and chose her to heal their mutual pain. Feinluna had been gone only four hours. Luiza had been devastated at its loss. But yet...she accepted the katana’s call. Matt wasn’t sure how he felt about that. How could she do it? If Dämoren died, smashed to pieces before him, he wouldn’t want to live.
