“Smudge me, Chief. I want to get clean,” Lil Devil demanded as he washed his bloody knife.
“You need a priest, not a shaman,” I scoffed, but the gangbanger grabbed my arm and held his knife to my throat.
Tensing, I pushed the weapon away. “Okay, I’ll get my sage and eagle feather.”
Minutes later, I wafted sweet smoke with my feather and watched its white tendrils cloak the killer’s head and body. I chanted a cleansing message but cursed him in my mind.
Two weeks later, Lil Devil died in a brawl, and his dirty soul went straight to hell.