“This isn’t supposed to happen to me,” protests Clarice. “You’re supposed to be giving this talk to some birthmarked teenager with violet eyes that change color with her mood!”
The dragon blinks mildly. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m a forty-six-year-old single mother,” snaps Clarice, “and my eyes are hazel.”
It shrugs. “I can’t speak for the sword’s predilections. You are its choice; this is your destiny.”
The grip’s wound with ancient leather in grooves that perfectly fit her fingers; the blade nearly leaps into her hand, thrumming with life and power.
It kind of reminds her of her vibrator.