My hands are cold and shaking; and I know it’s not from the icy cocktail glass my fingers are wrapped around. Despite the warm island breezes and lazy swaying of palm trees all around, my anxiety meter is still way off the charts.
By Jean Maxwellabout a year ago in Fiction
Chapter 1 “Come dear; we mustn’t dally too long in one place,” Davok said, nervously scratching himself beneath one wing.