“You radiate exuberance!” he said. Taken aback, I could only stare at Pecherov. His pallor was most alarming! “I say this in a complimentary sense,” he continued. “No doubt the blood flowing in your veins is devilishly exuberant!”
For a horrible moment, Pecherov sniffed the air like some unholy and hairless hound. “As I thought. Your blood smells like the sweetest perfume,” he concluded with a dark whisper, then darting off to snare an in-bounds pass.
Shaken by the exchange, I added three turnovers to my otherwise respectable estadísticas. And despite our victory, all I could think of in the locker chamber after the match were Pecherov’s burning eyes.
“Spaniard!” Greg Oden intoned, gesturing to me. “I have three words to speak to you.” He drew me in closer yet, looked over my shoulder, and said quietly, “Beware the upior.”
And with that, Greg reached out a massive ebon hand to deposit in my palm a bottle of pills… containing garlic extract.
Top foto from BlazersEdge.