Valerian did not comment, taking the moment instead to catch his breath. There would be a duel, and there was a chance one of them would die. Valerian was well acquainted with death; aside from his patients who occasionally could not be cured of their ailment, he was well-versed in the production of poisons intended to cause deaths. He'd led a number of small animals to their deaths over their years, but never in his life had Valerian intentionally killed another person. And he didn't want to have to—not over a woman, not a man as well-connected as Macmillan.
"Pistols," he responded, though he much rather would played a drinking game with booze and poisons. At least his death would have been poetic, and it would have been fun. But with pistols he'd at least know what he was doing; he'd been taught to shoot as a youth, and even though he had not done so in many years he was sure he could figure out how.
"Pistols," he responded, though he much rather would played a drinking game with booze and poisons. At least his death would have been poetic, and it would have been fun. But with pistols he'd at least know what he was doing; he'd been taught to shoot as a youth, and even though he had not done so in many years he was sure he could figure out how.
