The Writer Matches the Stranger's Wit

“Your father? Care to divulge?”

“No, I don’t care to divulge, you arrogant, pompous idiot!” I snapped, and turned away. Sleepless nights always made me irritable; Raine didn’t know that, of course, but why would I care?

“We’ve regressed into name-calling. Keep going, I’d love to see how this develops,” he mused, sitting back in his chair.

Inwardly, I fumed. How the Hell did he remain so calm?! Frankly, it ticked me off, and right now, what I honestly wanted to do was crack something akin to a vase over his head.

“I’m going to visit my father in Ireland, so you’d better run back to where you came from,” I said, and starting tactfully arranging things in the room.

His expression hardened, just in the slightest, and he replied, ice lacing his voice. “Give my regards to Tisiphone when you see her.”

“Last time I checked, I wasn’t part of the Furies,” I grunted, and slammed a drawer shut.

“You’re well versed, too. Your knowledge never ceases to amaze me.”

Where’s a bat when you need one?

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