13
“I murmured, eying the sword as she reappeared.“Will I look like a cello player? Or an assassin hiding an automatic rifle?”Valid point. My mother didn’t look like an assassin, but she looked even less likely to set foot in a symphony hall.“A hockey bag would work,” Mom said as we continued on. “Once, just after I got the angel gig, I had to deliver a message to your dad at his hockey game, and we weren’t exactly eager to share my new occupation with his teammates yet, so I hid it in his bag.”“My... father plays hockey?”“Plays might be an exaggeration. More like watches from the penalty box.”I laughed. “That I can see. But, um …” I looked at the sword. “It’s an angel sword, Mom. Stuffing it in a hockey bag just doesn’t seem right.”“It’s a tool, baby. One that come with some serious …” Her face clouded for a moment, then she shook her head. “Let’s just say that while I’ve grown fond of wielding a four-foot hunk of metal, I don’t have a problem with stuffing the damned thing in whatever does the job.MoreLess
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