Excerpt: The As-Yet Unnamed Sequel to Ronin's Sword

The man who swept in looked like... I dunno, a doctor? I'm not good with describing people, especially when they fit the regular freakin' stereotypical image of a doctor you'd see on ER or on Grey's Anatomy. He greeted Bobbie Jo in a manner that let me know we were at Saint Lukes. Saint Lukes is a private hospital, so they're real nice to whomever is footing the bill.

Then he turned his attention to me. "How are we feeling Mr. Smith?" That would be me. Mr. Khevrin Smith. When your first name is Khevrin, and you are blessed with the chance to choose your last name, I suggest you follow my example and pick something easy to spell and pronounce.

"Like someone hit me repeatedly with a blunt object," I answered. It's always good to be truthful when you are speaking to medical professionals who are legally allowed to stick you with pointy objects.

The doctor fiddled with a tube or three, made reasssuring noises and typed some notes into a computer, and then he reached for my face. "Let's check your pupils...OW!"

The Ow would be because I grabbed both his wrists and squeezed. "That's not a good idea." I growled.

"Doctor, there should be a note in his chart regarding his sensitivity to light." Bobbie Jo was using her The Counselor is Not Amused voice. She's a tax attorney, but I forget that until times such as this.

"As in I will wind up on the floor curled in the fetal position screaming my lungs out," I said.

"It's really fun at parties," Bobbie Jo adds. She's ever so helpful.

"Ah, yes, I apologize Mr. Smith."

"No problem." Oh, I was lying through my pretty white teeth. There was going to be a problem. For the amount of money I assume Bobbie Jo was paying for this room, I could make his life a big problem.

Revenge runs in my blood. Along with fire. And sometimes whiskey. But it's the fire part that causes the problem with the medical professionals.