Viola was in a black dress that hugged her and then let go, the fabric tipped with purple like bruised velvet to match the slant of her hair. She sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, little piles of shiny metal and glass around her like a predator's trophies. Chains, pins, tiny mirrors with bevels she liked to catch light in. Her hands moved methodically, threading, twisting, bending. She liked the small, precise violence of making something pretty that could cut.
Her device buzzed on the coffee table. She didn't bother looking; it was Ethan. He didn't bother with hello.
"Why isn't Xavier dead yet?" His voice was a raw edge. "How long is this gonna take, Viola? I don't want excuses, I want results. I—" The rest was cadence and impatience, the way people sound when they're used to things happening on command.
She smiled without showing teeth. "I'm already on Earth," she said. "I tracked him. I'm watching him."
