Fezzik chuckled again, its laughter sending shivers into the
air, as though the earth itself shuddered to have such a creature upon it. “Do
you understand, dear Mistress, the sort of value we ... demons, do you call
us?”
“I do not,” Sithe muttered darkly.
“Well,” Fezzik said dismissively, gesturing to its
companion, “I know that some do. Short-sighted cattle. But anyway, do you know
the value we place on the innocent among you? The pure? A rare and delicious commodity for us, Mistress.
Now, as to Abney? There is no culture in him. He is unlike you. We do have standards, and we do not bother
to negotiate with a man like Abney, no socializing, no witty repartee.” Another
chuckle. Sithe glared at the imp. “No, no. With him, it is strictly business.
We give him what he wants, and he gives us what we want.”
“For ... how long?” Sithe asked, choking on the words. She
cleared her throat. “How long has he been under contract? How many ... how
many children?”
Fezzik feigned shock, putting a bony hand to its lipless
mouth. “Why, Mistress! I’m not
supposed to say! Surely you know
that. Such an egregious breach of protocol!”
Sithe’s eyes flared up like oil caught by a stray match, and
in a flash of movement the imp had been launched across the room. “Tell me!” Sithe demanded, clenching her
right fist as though she intended to crush the little creature into paste. “How many?!”
Far from being injured, or insulted, or even fazed, Fezzik
laughed again.
“... Twelve,” the imp hissed, staring up at its mistress
as though daring her to react. “This new girl will be his thirteenth. A telling
number, don’t you think? I suppose you’ll want to be rescuing the precious little flower. You’d best be quick, then.”
Sithe’s robe whirled about her body as she stalked toward
the door.
Fezzik offered one last bit of counsel, before vanishing back into the
ether.
It said:
“By the way, Mistress. The girl’s name ... is Breanne.”
* * *
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