Fray smirked, looking down at Wes sitting on the bench. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and a bright orange hooded-sweatshirt was pushed up to her elbows, the zipper undone enough that her collarbone could be seen, and the straps of a tank top beneath.
She did not have the scythe on her; it attracted too much attention unless she was out on patrol. But there were stakes in the pockets of her cargo pants.