#cavan-tow

Cavan cocked a brow at Adelphie. The witch rolled her eyes, folded her arms, and, in one quick stomping gesture, made her point very clear.

“Out, on the table, off your person, and in my sight.”

“You know,” said Scout blandly, beginning to produce a small arsenal at a surprising rate, from lamb-cleavers to skinning knives to fish-gutters to small toothpicks that hardly passed for stiletto blades, “you really ought to word yourself more carefully.” Catching Adelphie’s stare, the Huntsman-who-wasn’t swallowed faintly and laid another knife on the table--a switchblade. “I’m just saying. When dealing with us folk--”

“I can, as you know, handle myself,” Adelphie retorted, her brown eyes flaring. Cavan said, wisely, absolutely nothing. He instead found a tiny morningstar he presumed gone. His brief moment of delight was shattered when he saw her motion for him to put it with the others. Reluctant but obliging, the phouka did so without grudge.

“Anything else?” Cavan shook his head. “I can find out for myself.” The negative gesture stopped mid-shake and he sighed, shoulders drooping. Adelphie held out her hand, flicking her fingers in a come-hither (but deadlier) way. 

With a grudge this time, Cavan stooped to draw a long, nasty-looking sickle out of his boot--somehow. Adelphie watched, brows raised, as the wickedly-curved crescent deposited itself on the hoard of glittering items with a clinking crash, a few smaller knuckle-knives skittering over her counter and onto the floor. 

Gradually, her brown eyes closed, and Cavan nonchalantly watched the heave of her shoulders (and below) as she placed a hand to her forehead like a long-suffering hostess after a long night’s restaurant managing.

“And why,” said Adelphie, “in the name of Diana, do you have that?” Kohl-lined eyes widened innocently, and Cavan spread his hands as Adelphie finally looked at him again.

“I’m saving that for a moment of danger,” said Cavan.