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Constant terror had siphoned and drained me, even though somehow I always seemed to be in a lull, a strange pocket of emptiness into which no men came, and I was never threatened.
It was a measure of my dullness, my dizziness, that it took me until midafternoon to see that this was Achilles’ doing. His gaze was on me always, preternaturally sensing the moment when a soldier’s eyes widened at the easy target I presented. Before the man drew another breath, he would cut him down.
It was an interesting read, even though my focus kept slipping because the plot wasn't really as intricate as I would accept from a detective novel. Honestly, you could figure the whole thing out even before halfway through the book. And the characters weren't much fleshed out, and Harry kept babbling through the most exciting parts of the book, and there was the issue with Harry's (or the author's?) fixation with femininity and what's feminine and what's not. It could be maybe acceptable from a debut work. But there was also a lot of underdeveloped potential, I guess that just shows it is an introduction to an exciting world.