Birthright

Dori peered up from beneath her hat brim. As she took in the man’s features, the cigarette burned fragrantly between her fingers. She guessed his age to be mid-thirties. By all appearances he was a healthy man, and yet there was a haze of death around him. Death did not always mean dying oneself; it could mean taking a life, or the presence of sickness, or even an unpleasant memory of a life gone before. Or perhaps it was just the dark edges of the funeral clinging to his aura.

Whatever it was, it appealed to her.

She exhaled a silvery breath.

“There’s still time.”

Dori got to her feet.