When the evening wrapped up, Conor headed for his SUV parked around back. As he reached to open the door, a shadow loomed over him.
“Hand over the pendant, Roviin Felkir,” a gruff hand tightened on his shoulder.
Conor panicked, but images of his short training with Celia flooded his mind. He ducked and spun, trying to process the odd words the man had spoken. “What do you want? And what did you call me?” Conor backed toward the Spice Emporium hoping to draw attention. Four more figures appeared, one was right behind him.
“I said, hand over the pendant, you wandering feral child. You have no business possessing the sacred talisman of Celia. Only the high counsel of the Dovari may bestow such an honor on a worthy initiate.”