“Champagne?” A deep British voice cuts in behind me. “Sure,” I mutter. The flute is in my hand a second later, but Stephanie goes stiff beside me. Her body jolts against mine. “What is it?” I lean down, my mouth close to her ear. “I—uh… I don’t mean to be rude, but that guy’s face was a mess.” A mess? She swallows, her voice dropping lower. “Like… broken. Like he took a heavy beating and walked away without an eye.”
british guy with a bashed up face who shouldn't be there.... that has to either be the Preacher or the Bowen that Conan supposedly killed in the ring.
