body suit. Despite the close fit of the leather clothing contouring her shape, the messenger from Bormeer did not believe it was as comfortable as it looked.
“Has Witaasen accepted my offer?” Larsetta asked.
“Not directly, m’lady,” the man said. He forced himself not to stammer, nor stare too long at any one part of the woman stretching in recline before him.
Larsetta closed her eyes and asked, “He made a counter offer then?”
Dwin swallowed and nodded. He slowly pulled the sealed letter from his coat and offered it to the woman.
“Yes, m’lady. He would not tell me the details.”
Larsetta’s eyes flicked open and she lifted her arm. The document seemed to pull from his grasp of its own volition and was suddenly in Larsetta’s hand – seal broken and unfolded. deKale continued to stand in place, waiting to be dismissed. He was a second from stepping back, thinking that she had forgotten him, when she spoke again.
“No, no, Lord Neal. That simply will not suffice. I want a city of my own to play with and you will help me make Islar that city.”
By the time Dwin realized that she was not speaking to him, the letter was in tiny shreds falling toward the floor. It was some trick of the light in the room, perhaps the flickering candles. He never saw her tear the paper. Larsetta’s arm seemed to drift slowly over the edge of the divan and then the letter was gone. Before each piece landed on the coral marble, it smoldered into a fine, white-gray ash.
“I would have you bring a message back to Lord Witaasen,” Larsetta said to him. “But you have other plans.”
“Other plans, m’lady?” he asked. “I don’t think I’m–”
Suddenly Larsetta was no longer on the divan, but behind him. Her small, delicate hands were on his wrists, locking them in an iron grip. Her body against his back did not feel soft and curvaceous. Rather she was like jagged metal, catching at his traveling clothes and skin. Dwin felt her face against his right ear, chin pushing painfully into his shoulder, and her hot breath on the side of his face.
DeKale would have spoken, called out for help. His brain struggled to make it happen. Neurons began firing to put contextual thought into the right words. Synapses were just beginning to send the right commands to the mouth, jaw, vocal chords, and chest. But the process was interrupted. Dwin deKale never even got to realize he was going to die.
~
Larsetta slowly withdrew her purple-black tongue back into her mouth. She truly disliked the taste of the human ear. With her enhanced senses, the bitterness of the wax and salty stale sweat nearly made her pause. However, once her tongue had plunged through the eardrum and shattered away the three ossicles, the glorious taste of the human brain made it so worthwhile.
She sighed. She had been impatient. Her tongue had scrambled the courier’s brain into a thick warm soup. Then she had sucked it down too quickly. She frowned, examining the now empty head lolled over on its neck. The letter must have upset her more than she thought. The courier was not even that handsome.
~
Holger paced in the tiny entry office of Tonas Valche. A full bell had passed and the man still had not received him. His guts were roiling. He had a heavy breakfast at the Mean Goat, using his position to pressure the tavern keeper into a free meal. Fried salted herring, scrambled gull eggs, and thick whey bread covered in clotted cream. He washed the double serving down with a pitcher of dark honeyed ale. Now he silently lied to himself, blaming his discomfort on the extra portion of gull eggs rather than placing it more truthfully on his anger.
Valche's office was stifling. The man still had a fire burning in the full-wall fireplace despite the weather’s transition into spring over a week ago. Twice Holger considered pulling off his heavy cloak and tabard, but realized there was no place to hang it other than the landowner's chair. The bastard earned
“Has Witaasen accepted my offer?” Larsetta asked.
“Not directly, m’lady,” the man said. He forced himself not to stammer, nor stare too long at any one part of the woman stretching in recline before him.
Larsetta closed her eyes and asked, “He made a counter offer then?”
Dwin swallowed and nodded. He slowly pulled the sealed letter from his coat and offered it to the woman.
“Yes, m’lady. He would not tell me the details.”
Larsetta’s eyes flicked open and she lifted her arm. The document seemed to pull from his grasp of its own volition and was suddenly in Larsetta’s hand – seal broken and unfolded. deKale continued to stand in place, waiting to be dismissed. He was a second from stepping back, thinking that she had forgotten him, when she spoke again.
“No, no, Lord Neal. That simply will not suffice. I want a city of my own to play with and you will help me make Islar that city.”
By the time Dwin realized that she was not speaking to him, the letter was in tiny shreds falling toward the floor. It was some trick of the light in the room, perhaps the flickering candles. He never saw her tear the paper. Larsetta’s arm seemed to drift slowly over the edge of the divan and then the letter was gone. Before each piece landed on the coral marble, it smoldered into a fine, white-gray ash.
“I would have you bring a message back to Lord Witaasen,” Larsetta said to him. “But you have other plans.”
“Other plans, m’lady?” he asked. “I don’t think I’m–”
Suddenly Larsetta was no longer on the divan, but behind him. Her small, delicate hands were on his wrists, locking them in an iron grip. Her body against his back did not feel soft and curvaceous. Rather she was like jagged metal, catching at his traveling clothes and skin. Dwin felt her face against his right ear, chin pushing painfully into his shoulder, and her hot breath on the side of his face.
DeKale would have spoken, called out for help. His brain struggled to make it happen. Neurons began firing to put contextual thought into the right words. Synapses were just beginning to send the right commands to the mouth, jaw, vocal chords, and chest. But the process was interrupted. Dwin deKale never even got to realize he was going to die.
~
Larsetta slowly withdrew her purple-black tongue back into her mouth. She truly disliked the taste of the human ear. With her enhanced senses, the bitterness of the wax and salty stale sweat nearly made her pause. However, once her tongue had plunged through the eardrum and shattered away the three ossicles, the glorious taste of the human brain made it so worthwhile.
She sighed. She had been impatient. Her tongue had scrambled the courier’s brain into a thick warm soup. Then she had sucked it down too quickly. She frowned, examining the now empty head lolled over on its neck. The letter must have upset her more than she thought. The courier was not even that handsome.
~
Holger paced in the tiny entry office of Tonas Valche. A full bell had passed and the man still had not received him. His guts were roiling. He had a heavy breakfast at the Mean Goat, using his position to pressure the tavern keeper into a free meal. Fried salted herring, scrambled gull eggs, and thick whey bread covered in clotted cream. He washed the double serving down with a pitcher of dark honeyed ale. Now he silently lied to himself, blaming his discomfort on the extra portion of gull eggs rather than placing it more truthfully on his anger.
Valche's office was stifling. The man still had a fire burning in the full-wall fireplace despite the weather’s transition into spring over a week ago. Twice Holger considered pulling off his heavy cloak and tabard, but realized there was no place to hang it other than the landowner's chair. The bastard earned
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