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"He who measures a person's worth grasps only illusion."
- Ancient Basque proverb
Lucas wore the veneer of civilization easily as he did all of his disguises.
Inwardly, he was as wild and fierce as his mother ever was ... if not more so. Perhaps it was a remnant of his unknown father.
He cared even less about his father than he did about the gun held steadily at his heart, the least vulnerable part of his body.
His utter disregard of her gun obviously bothered Moira.
"I could kill you right now and get away with it, you know,"
His eyes became hard, and his voice irritable.
"People kill one another for so many inane, shallow, pointless reasons. And ultimately, they destroy themselves doing so."
His words became little more than a whisper.
"A pointed gun is not a question mark, Moira. It is an exclamation point."
His right hand became a blur ... and suddenly, her gun was in his hand.
"This is a prop gun. The safety is on. You've been shouting -- Please kill me!"
He flipped open the cylinder, showing her what he had already seen: there were no bullets in the gun.
"Pl-Please don't kill me."
"Why would I? I don't want your life. I just want to know where I can find the girl with silver eyes."
Her pale face puckered as her thumb jerked up over her shoulder to the mock-up movie poster on the wall behind her.
"You mean Deirdre Manes?"
As Lucas took in the poster for the movie still in production, an image of himself with long donkey ears flashed before his eyes.
A Bible verse came to mind: Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools.
He sighed. It was a great life if you didn't mind making a fool of yourself every so often ... like now.
He cursed himself in Basque: artaburu : corn head, idiot.
A girl with eerie silver eyes looked down on him from the poster, clutching the most cursed book in all of existence.
Donovan didn't want that girl at all. He wanted to damn his soul for her book.
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