This identity does not claim points.
“Oh my god!” are Mithra’s first words when we sneak into Cato’s house. “Is that a white tiger?”
The beast is sleeping – hopefully drugged, because I like my limbs attached. It’s six hundred pounds of white and grey lethal beauty.
“Of course not,” I reply dryly. “There are, like, five specimen on the whole continent. This is a normal tiger; the colour came out in the wash.”
“Shut up,” Mithra hisses, trying not to laugh. “This stinks.”
“Yeah.” I look around the palatial hall. “Bet you they forgot it in the washing machine when they were laundering all this money.”
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