#WritingWonders 5.13 — Shar[ing] a description of a secondary character from Reluctant Accomplice ( #sff WiP, working title) by R.S.

#Excerpt describing Citron.

Wringing the clothes, I switched to reviewing a revelation my fighting-arts coach had taught me while convincing me to fight in the arena.

"Scirocco!" I said, imagining a hot gust of desert wind creating a dust devil visualized in a field of vectors. I tossed the clothes and towel into my targeting zone. A burst of heat tightened the skin on my face; a rolling gust of hyacinth-scented steam hit the ceiling and spread out, jostling the sparkles aside. I juggled the hot dry fabric that dropped into my damp hands.

Mallow stood straight, staring at the steam cloud.

I smiled his direction, pleased I'd startled him.

A daemon stood outside the doorway.

He had ram horns that would make a ewe swoon. His were the same ruddy amber color as his skin and eyes. His curly black hair flowed like a breaking wave around his horns and tumbled over his shoulders. He wore the revealing black silk tights, black gloves, and black moccasins I had bought for him at Iris on Hillcrest for situations like this.

Citron had been my second before everything blew up in the gang war in Harbor Beach. I'd been Boss Nightingale's bodyguard and part-time "personnel" manager. My number one priority: jumping her out of danger. While I watched out for her, the daemon whose glinting uncanny eyes I met, had been in charge of keeping me safe when I couldn't pay attention to my own flank.

His concerned face floated like an illuminated paper lantern in darkness.

I moved my head slightly right then left.

Mallow noticed my glance and turned.

"Oh, sorry," a teenage voice said, but he'd stepped left out of the doorway, voice getting lower with distance. "My mistake! I'll use it later."

I dashed to the door, performing Push to keep Mallow from dashing out before me. Blocking the door, I looked down the street.

The nightshine to the west threw him into silhouette. He opened his hand and a silver coin flashed; he flipped himself over a fence and slipped amongst the trees. None of this made a sound.

I'd trained him well.

Mallow shouldered by me. "That was strange. Hey, where'd he go?"

I lied, "That blue-eyed rook made Sprinter look like a snail. Love to be that fast!" I had my clothes gripped in a fist. I looked at the limp blouse and olive never-needs-starch shorts, thinking furiously.

Citron had followed me against my orders. [...] My abbreviated head motion had kept him from flooding the bathroom with daemon fire. I'd indicated I wasn't in any danger I couldn't handle. The coin meant he wanted to talk.

[Copyright retained by author]

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