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"Kill him."
"...kill Lord Wyvn?"
"Did I stutter?"
"You're certain, Highness?"
The lean silhouette at the window shifted, eyes luminous in the dim room as they caught the low light like those of a cat or a dog.
"Are you questioning me?" His normally quiet, pleasant voice was a dangerous whisper.
"I would be a suicidal fool to question the will of Grydmr's Bane!"
In that moment, Edmunton Duvain felt a pang of regret as the halfbreed's sibilant voice squeaked out a terrified assurance of respect and fear. The boy was half goblin, half sidhe, barely five feet tall and beautifully adorned with opalescent scales in an elegant rainbow of colors that covered his body in patches against white skin and jet black hair. His speech impediment came from a forked tongue, and his eyes were as black as his hair.
He was unfit to walk among mortals without a glamour, but stunning to look at....and yet, just like Ed, among their native people, the boy was considered disfigured.
Waving off his servant impatiently, Edmunton turned back to the window of his penthouse apartment and stared out at the stunning view of Las Vegas without really seeing it. Every second that ticked by was another second closer to the death of Courtney Marteniz, a mage whose only crime against anyone was caring for him, once upon a time.
The only reason she was marked for death was because of him...and her blood was going to be on his hands if she did, in fact, die.
He'd never used his power as king of the Unseelie for much, but preventing this, somehow, some way, was as good a use as any: he'd ordered as many of his father's enemies as could be located either imprisoned or executed, and was now working through Mab's allies. Half the courts thought he was going mad, the other half was hoping to capitalize on his distraction to take his throne.
He was perfectly sane, and he'd never been hungrier for blood than he was right at that moment. Fear and affection did that to lonely men.
With a snarl, Ed turned away from the window and grabbed his coat. Shrugging it on against the chill of a desert night in winter, he dissolved into the shadows of his dimly lit penthouse and coalesced again down the street, stepping out of an alley next to a local Starbucks.
He couldn't get drunk, not really, and the tea in America was shite. Coffee would have to do.
"...kill Lord Wyvn?"
"Did I stutter?"
"You're certain, Highness?"
The lean silhouette at the window shifted, eyes luminous in the dim room as they caught the low light like those of a cat or a dog.
"Are you questioning me?" His normally quiet, pleasant voice was a dangerous whisper.
"I would be a suicidal fool to question the will of Grydmr's Bane!"
In that moment, Edmunton Duvain felt a pang of regret as the halfbreed's sibilant voice squeaked out a terrified assurance of respect and fear. The boy was half goblin, half sidhe, barely five feet tall and beautifully adorned with opalescent scales in an elegant rainbow of colors that covered his body in patches against white skin and jet black hair. His speech impediment came from a forked tongue, and his eyes were as black as his hair.
He was unfit to walk among mortals without a glamour, but stunning to look at....and yet, just like Ed, among their native people, the boy was considered disfigured.
Waving off his servant impatiently, Edmunton turned back to the window of his penthouse apartment and stared out at the stunning view of Las Vegas without really seeing it. Every second that ticked by was another second closer to the death of Courtney Marteniz, a mage whose only crime against anyone was caring for him, once upon a time.
The only reason she was marked for death was because of him...and her blood was going to be on his hands if she did, in fact, die.
He'd never used his power as king of the Unseelie for much, but preventing this, somehow, some way, was as good a use as any: he'd ordered as many of his father's enemies as could be located either imprisoned or executed, and was now working through Mab's allies. Half the courts thought he was going mad, the other half was hoping to capitalize on his distraction to take his throne.
He was perfectly sane, and he'd never been hungrier for blood than he was right at that moment. Fear and affection did that to lonely men.
With a snarl, Ed turned away from the window and grabbed his coat. Shrugging it on against the chill of a desert night in winter, he dissolved into the shadows of his dimly lit penthouse and coalesced again down the street, stepping out of an alley next to a local Starbucks.
He couldn't get drunk, not really, and the tea in America was shite. Coffee would have to do.
