“They only want you to melt so much, Ajay. You need to think with your head and not your heart.” Her gaze softened. “What’s her name?”

“Bridget.” Her name was as sweet as palm jaggery in his mouth.

Her eyes narrowed. “A white girl? That may be a bridge—or should I say, Bridget?—too far.”

BOB

In the Nick of Time

Rugged and rocky was the coastline. The weather-beaten trail twisted back and forth through the barren land. Overhead, the relentless sun rained down its luminous rays on the man struggling forward. Little did Rowan know that this was actually the calm before the storm.

Yesterday, after his stolen mount had fallen to its knees and then been unable to rise, Rowan had slit its throat. It had been a mercy, and not just for the horse. After catching the hot, salty blood in his hands, he had slurped it up, the only food or drink he’d had in days.

But that was yesterday. Now his tongue was so swollen it filled his mouth.

The pounding waves masked the sound of his pursuers. He did not hear them until they were nearly upon him, astride three heaving mounts. Spinning around, Rowan barely had time to reach back and draw the swords from the crossed sheaths on his back.

“Prepare to embrace your creator in the haunts of hell, peasant!” thundered the leading soldier.

“First you must kiss my blade, wretch!” In the nick of time, Rowan parried the soldier’s lance with one sword while his second cut a new, red smile on his attacker’s face.

Screaming with his smaller, original mouth, the mercenary crumpled from his saddle, sprinkling the parched earth with scarlet droplets.

The second soldier spurred his steed toward Rowan. “Damn you, you miscreant serf!” he shrieked, riding over his dying companion. His muscular right arm thrust a flashing steel blade at Rowan’s unprotected neck—

Just as Rowan launched himself with his characteristic catlike grace, not backward, but forward. The second soldier’s sword met only empty air. As Rowan leapt, he sheathed his own blade in the other man’s vital organs. The soldier emitted a groan as he tumbled from his steed, disturbing the golden sands of what would soon be his deathbed.

Cool as a cucumber, Rowan turned toward the lone surviving mercenary. With a grin, he tossed his remaining sword from left hand to right.

The man saw the writing on the wall. Putting the spur to his mount’s sides, he tried to swivel about to return whence he came.

But his steed’s four hooves were no match for Rowan’s two swift feet. And soon Rowan’s scarlet-streaked blade found a new home.