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Summary
“When the patron told me you were in need of aid, I did not believe her at first.” The man reached out, threading his fingers through the bars of the muzzle. He tilted Drifter’s head up, craning his neck at an awkward angle to examine the extent of his bindings. There was something satisfying about having the ancient bound before him, helpless to his own whims. “The marking on your arm allowed me to figure out exactly what had happened, but a stray bullet from my own gun only goes so far. So, against my better judgement, I decided to see what mess you had stumbled into.” Mirage pulled his hand back, allowing Drifter to slump back into a more comfortable position. “Least to say, I am thoroughly entertained by this.”
“You’re what?” Drifter sneered, causing a clot of blood to spatter against the silver. “What’s so entertainin’ to you about a fellow ritualist bein’ held captive? And here I was, thinkin’ that you were gonna play nice.”