"What you do best, Shepherd," Senithe said, voice smooth as a blade fresh from the whetstone. "The instant we touch down in Paris, do what you do best."
The Shepherd's flicker stabilized for one long, luxurious heartbeat into something that almost wore an expression—a master craftsman handed the keys to the workshop, told the hours were hers, and informed there would be no curfew, no oversight, and no survivors.
Then the vision scattered again, face dissolving back into its usual teasing haze, leaving the room poorer for the loss.
Senithe turned.
She turned to Cazzie.
Cazzie had already raised one hand from the couch in lazy preemption, lollipop still jutting from her mouth like a declaration of war.
"Yes, yes, yes, I know—back to Maya's side. Movie nights and watching her mother grade biology homework like some tragically normal human child. I get it. Got it. Already packed, already bored."
"You return to her side," Senithe said evenly, "and you create—"
