Tobias Renn was not what I expected.
I don't know what I expected. The son of a man like Halveth Crone. Some version of the father, maybe — the warm voice, the measured delivery, the quality of someone who had learned to build things that looked like nothing from the outside.
What I got was a twenty-six-year-old sitting cross-legged on a bed in a Vaulted City safe house, eating crackers from a box, wearing a grey sweatshirt with a small paint stain on the sleeve, who looked up when we came in and said: "You're taller than I thought you'd be."
This was to Zevran.
"I've heard that," Zevran said.
"Your file photo is misleading." He looked at me. "Dr. Voss. I've been reading your surgical protocols paper. The one on accelerated lycan healing post-op." He set the cracker box down. "You hav
