If Sithe expected any kind of reaction from her unsightly,
unholy apparitions, it certainly wouldn’t have been for them to laugh. Nonetheless, that was precisely
what Fezzik did. It tossed its head back and cackled. Metha’li had no mouth, nor
a voice, but it seemed to vibrate with mirth alongside its partner.
“Oh, good old Abney!”
“Wait.” Sithe’s eyes bored into each demon in turn. “You know this man?”
Fezzik continued to howl. Metha’li nodded ... inasmuch as
a mass of black goo could nod.
“Oh, Mistress ... lovely little Mistress of mine ...” the
skeletal creature purred into Sithe’s ear. “We know Abney very, very well.”
Silence reigned.
Sithe finally leaned back against her desk, and regarded
Metha’li carefully while Fezzik danced across her shoulders. She said, after a
while, “I suppose this simplifies things. If you know him, then surely you know
why I’ve called for you.”
“Oh, certainly,” Fezzik said, sounding almost disappointed. “Master
Abney is ... well, to use a turn of phrase you might use, here in your living world, quite a piece of work. Has
he finally slipped enough that you’ve discovered him? My, my. How sloppy.”
The look on Sithe’s face was dangerous. Her mouth drew down
into an ugly scowl, and her eyes added to the dance by going wide and rather
feverish. It wasn’t often that this lovely young woman looked in such a state.
Her tongue was sharp, her eyes sharper, but honest anger took a painfully long
time to build in her. Sithe's standard coping mechanism was to block it, and all other
negative emotions, and box them in. Compartmentalize.
Which was to say that, when Miss Sithe got super calm, her children knew better
than to cross her.
This, though. This went
far beyond torrential calm. This anger was not something that could be blocked
behind a mental barrier. It was deep, and primeval. A scorching sort of rage. She
knew, in the darkest part of her, that there was only one way for her clever
little familiar to know about Gregor Abney.
A contract.
* * *
No comments:
Post a Comment