The title probably is going to go.
“Her name’s Irene,” Sofie told me as we went into the night. “She’s way in over her head, and I can’t go to the police. Do I need to say why?”
We weren’t attracting too much attention as we moved our way away from the bar. Rick had found me a spare shirt out of the grab box that fit all right; he runs the kind of joint whose regulars find it handy sometimes to leave dressed different than when they came in. I didn’t even have to leave a deposit. Getting stabbed on the premises apparently got you points there.
“Gonna guess she’s in the wrong line of work?” I said. “And you’re not going to tell me her full name, either?” Which worried me, a little. Usually the only time you were cagy about names like that was if there was magic involved somehow. Not that we have any mages in New California. Just ask anybody; they’ll tell you.
“I know the one she gave me,” Sofie said carefully. “I don’t think it was her real one. She’s from Deseret.”
I barely managed not to swear. “She a regular refugee, or on the run?” It’s not like the old days, when it seemed like half of Deseret fled south after the Universal Dominion beat them in their war, but we still get a trickle of refugees. And usually they’re bringing trouble with them, the poor bastards.