Kris slid two rare green life crystals across the table, the common form of payment for an assassination not ordered by Death herself.
Gabriel took the crystals with a nod.
Light snow had begun to fall—tiny crystals hardly visible in the light of the lamp across the street.
Mountain winters were always a surprise to lowlanders and easterners, where the chemistry of moisture played games that produced slush and wet snow, not the sparkling crystals so soft a broom could clear a foot-deep snowfall with a few swishes.
With deadly accuracy, she threw the ball at him, laughing when it bounced off his leather coat and sprayed a mist of white crystals in his face.
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