Julian’s face drained of every drop of color.
His breath caught in his throat in a dry, rattling hiss:
*k-k-k.*
“The… the Mercer Transit Pin…?”
Julian stammered, his aristocratic arrogance disintegrating into sheer, apocalyptic terror as he stared at the woman he had just called a vagrant:
**“You aren’t a runaway daughter from Harland County… you are Arthur Mercer’s direct lineal auditor.”*
