“Do you always drink this much?” Lera grimaced. “When I only have one day off every eight weeks, when that one day is taken over by my being weaseled into a public display and then my nice evening with a friend is run over by three bullies, then yes, I drink this much. Do your ribs still hurt?” He looked at her with dark silver eyes that were almost lost in the grey mask that was made of skin pigments against the midnight of the rest of his skin. His black hair was tipped with red. It was the only colour nature had provided him with. The rest of him was monochrome. “My ribs are fine. Coma also has healing skills. How is it that you were able to dodge my strikes?” “Well, you were not trying very hard, and I have been training for the last six years to avoid getting struck. It comes as second nature by now.” She shrugged and took the cocktail that the waiter placed in front of her. Lance spoke softly. “Why did you come to the recruitment?” She swallowed and looked at him under her lashes.
