Blood is aging, still fast as a dagger and twice as cruel. His palms are calluses, and a scarf hides the scar on his neck. Treasure’s hot and young and knows it. He’s got a shock of blonde and arms draped in bracelets, a rapier wit and a rapier rapier. But it’s his tongue, Blood learns, that does the disarming.

They meet on the laundry job, each primarily self-concerned; in a night they go from strangers to rivals to lovers. They abscond and spend everything. They are suddenly a team.

Blood and Treasure, Treasure and Blood. Everything ends in either.