When I read my own obituary months ago, nothing about it felt like a lie. Seth LeBlanc died the same night his brother, Benny, did. I reach up and run my fingers over the sparrow on the side of my neck, and a slow grin creeps over my lips. Little Sparrow. I hear Xaviaro’s voice purr the affectionate name in my ear. Deadly Little Sparrow. The thought fills me with the same confident thrill I felt as I plunged my dagger into Velcro’s throat.
