~Hours Later~

He glanced over to the door of his third-floor office with a nod of approval. ?Judas, I?ve been expecting you. Come, come. Tarry there holding up mine door frame no longer, have a seat and make yourself comfortable. May I interest ye in a glass of Tawny Port?? The mage?s acute ice-blue eyes raked over the man as he took a seat in the plush cushioned chair seated in front of Veighn?s mahogany desk.

?No thank you, Mr. Yhaull, I do not indulge in fermented refreshment. I thank you for the offer though.? The man smiled, trying to appear less nervous than he really was. He?d heard dark rumors surrounding this man, and the thought of becoming his business partner, though promising and lucrative, was more than a little unnerving.

?Lord Yhaull.? The archmagus corrected, a metal rod scratched black ink across the vellum before him, the pen one solid piece, the tip fashioned like the shaft of a writing quill. ?As a partner, I expect you to bring to the table more than just a share in the paying of the property taxes, merchandise, and other accoutrements ye see fit to purchase with your share of the profits. I wish for you to handle the accounting part of the business. I expect ye can count, no?? Veighn?s brow escalated as the question was posed in a somewhat mocking baritone. He then glanced down to the vellum before him and continued scrawling what appeared to be some sort of letter.

?Of course, Mr?err.. Lord Yhaull, I can count.? Judas suddenly grew flush, the heat rising in his cheeks and beneath his collar. He?d never been insulted so, and for no obvious reason, before. He was starting to grow fidgety, flustered. ?I was under the impression that those ye were inviting here were to be made equal partners in this business. I thought??

Veighn?s gaze lifted suddenly, and he sat the metal quill in its respective tray, his eyes creasing at the corners, black scale tracery gleaming in the firelight. The hearth crackled behind Judas, opposite of him across the room. ?Ye first mistake. I donnae recall ever before telling ye to think, nor was I aware of ever luring ye here under the false pretense that ye were going to be made an equal partner. Ye are not mine equal. Ye are ? look at me when I?m addressing ye, Judas, or I?ll take your eyes ? as I was saying? ye are far from being mine equal in anything. Ye should feel privileged to even be here, now, having a conversation with me, however one-sided. Do you understand??

?Well? I? Yes, Lord Yhaull, I understand your meaning perfectly. You need an accountant, and a partner to share some of the liability. I am at your service should you deem me an appropriate candidate for the position?err? partnership?thing.? He bit his tongue, forcing it to stop moving in his blunder though the acceptance of Lord Yhaull?s half-assed offer of a job. He grinned suddenly, a beaming grin, and he knew he looked every ounce the idiot he felt. He was frowning on the inside, but Judas assumed ? rightly so ? it would be a fatal error to show his displeasure at Lord Yhaull?s offer.

?Very well, Judas. Ye have been accepted. Ye office will be on the first floor, just outside the foyer where the parlor might be. That should be sufficient space for ye to perform the duties I place before ye.? Veighn sprinkled drying powder on the missive he?d written, and folded it twice width wise, and once along a vertical axis. He then melted a stick of wax in the candle flame, and sealed the note with a stamp-press of his signet ring. ?Ye may go, though before ye do?? he handed the man the letter ?You will find a man by the name of Gwar and deliver this message into his hands. Tell him it is an important missive and it must get to his master, the timing being that most expeditious. Do not fail me.? He made a shooing gesture with his hand, directing Judas to the door with a point.

Numbly, Judas took the missive, eyeing the name scrawled above the seal. He frowned, furrowing his brow. In a tight, slanted, flashy, and effusively elegant hand was written the letters L-U-C-I-E-N ?B-O-B? M-A-L-L-O-R-E-K. Veighn, it seemed, was no longer interested in his presence, and by the man?s posture, the longer Judas lingered and puzzled over the letter, the more irritable the Dark Wizard got. Judas, exercising his prudence, abruptly and immediately made himself scarce. He practically ran after he got halfway down the hallway. His heart thudded against his ribs. He was terrified, charged with delivering a letter to someone he didn?t know. He was half-way down the stairs when he managed to work up his nerve to speak aloud to himself. ?If I can survive a week in the employ of that man, I?ll be greatful!? This he muttered to himself as he moved on out the front entrance, and into the small courtyard from the cobblestone walk. "The next question is finding out whatever the hell it is we're supposed to be selling these people...."

~Message~

Mr. Mallorek,

I take immense pleasure in the writing of this letter knowing that it will not be received with love and care. It appears as though last harvest has drawn nigh and the festivities of All Soul?s Eve have commenced. It is a shame, that irony, that ye have no soul to celebrate this glorious day of honoring the dead.

I pity you not, however, for my love for ye extends not quite so far as ye feelings about mineself. Ye, of course, will have noticed that mine spire and chateau have disappeared from the vicinity of Rhy?Din City?s northeast parameter. Though I have, in mine infinite wisdom, chosen to relocate my domicile to more appealing environs, as a point of contact I send ye this missive to inform ye that I have opened up an office in the outskirts of Rhy?Din City?s Temple District.

I feel the yearning of ye Soul wishing to return to its house, its vessel, more precisely ? ye body. The name of mine shop, I think ye will agree it is quite a clever enterprise, is Covetous Desires LLP. Though I do not care either way what happens to ye or ye quintessence, I grant ye the opportunity to offer me something of equal or greater value in trade for ye soul.

I expect ye response in short order after the deliverance of this letter, and will not tolerate feigned disinterest or an otherwise offensive offer as barter. Ye have been warned, and the tariff I shall impose upon ye should ye chose to overlook my advice will be considerable. I will look forward to hearing from ye, ?Bob,? try not to get yeself killed in the interim between now and the date ye come to make ye offer. I await ye reply, and expect ye presence within the week.

Sincerely, He to Whom Ye Owe Much More Than Fealty,
Archmagus of the Lunithaylian Shar Vae
Knight of the Nineth Circle, Order Mor?vraith
Grand Herophant of the Faith Corvi
Lord Veighnuulz Yhaull,

Post Script: Do send ye newest Priestess Play-mate mine love, ye angry little man,

~End Message~

~Meanwhile, back at the brownstone building housing the business, Covetous Desires LLP~

?My name is Simon, Sir.? The man said softly, wringing his hands before him as he stood before the mahogany bureau. Lord Yhaull seemed to be engrossed in a pile of papers signing, initialing, and adding complex sigils to choice areas. The seeming nondescript man ceased his introduction, and after a lengthy pause of awkward silence, the ?Black Wizard?s? glacial gaze lifted from his work.

Veighn?s brow arched speculatively, ?And??? His gaze, like lances of solid ice, pierced the man to his very core, chilling his soul.
?M?Lord?? Simon paused, startled, and his mind went racing as he began to rub his sweaty palms against his wool pants.

Veighn frowned, brow furrowing, and sat the quill in its holder. He then, in very precise, almost ritualistic movements, replaced the ink vial?s stopper. Sighing ? an otherwise useless gesture other than the fact that it expressed his irritation ? Veighn continued. ?Nevermind, I don?t need your qualifications, Peter, I know well of what ye are capable. Ye will find my secretary, Mary, in the next room. She will get ye acclimated to ye new pris?er, office. From there, I wish ye to brainstorm and come up with creative advertising ideals ? I shall make ye head of that branch of mine business.?

The fire crackled in the heart behind the Dark Lord, eyes widening in horror as agonized faces surfaced in the sinuous flickering of luminescent scarlet and crimson ignition. ?I? uh? begging ye pardon M?Lord, my name is Simon?

?Eloquent, Peter, very eloquent. Quit standing there gaping with ye mouth open and do something useful. Talk to Bartholomew, he will arrange for ye office furniture. Now, if there is nothing else ye may start ye employment immediately.? Veighn remarked ungraciously.

It took Rebekah most of the night and part of another to pinpoint the precise location of the dark wizard?s lair?if it could be called such. The office was in a well-to-do section on the outskirts of the Temple district. She stood outside the big brownstone for long minutes: examining the sign, with its painted symbols of esoterica; looking at the lit windows to try to catch the telltale shimmer of a ward; planning escape routes; summoning both her words and the courage to use them. At last the little woman strode up to the front door, head held high, and knocked three times.

A young man with brown eyes in a sweet face?cannon fodder, in other words?opened the door. He looked her up and down, then cleared his throat as if remembering his duty and asked her, ?Can I help you??

At once she thrust the slightly crumpled letter out at him. ?Rebekah Vincent, to see Lord Yhaull, if you please. I am here acting as an agent for Lucien Mallorek on a small matter regarding ownership of a certain priceless piece.?

The room was like...

...like...

...like being exactly in the middle of a Kiss, in the instant after her fangs slid free from her victim's flesh, when the blood began to flow, when ecstasy conjoined them. Hearing that steady drumbeat was like stealing a heartbeat and feeling it kick in her own chest as she drank. Externalized, it seemed somehow worse, more horrific, less beautiful, more real. The scents overwhelmed her. Frankincense she recognized, rosewood and cedar; other scents sharp and medicinal, slow and seductive crowded in. It was too many, too much; her head swam, and she stopped breathing in a futile attempt to compensate for it.

Eddies of sweetness and death swirled around her in the close warm air as she crossed the room to the desk, her gaze firmly fixed on it. If she could make it to the desk, she told herself, she could sit. She could brace herself. She would be in a better position for bargaining. Dark wizard, Kyrie had told her, and the priestess was more right than Rebekah could have imagined. And so she did not look up at the man behind the desk, though the familiarity of his voice slithered like snakes over every inch of her exposed skin. She did not look up. She heard Paul's eventual desertion as if it were happening a million miles away, the sound attenuated until its point was lost under the steady thumping beat. She crossed the room, she reached one of the delicate chairs offered to her. Perched on its edge, her fingers curled around its carved arms, she recalled her own age, the sure strength wound down into her very bones, and looked up.

The eyes that met hers were narrowed in a lazy, deadly amusement. They seemed to lay bare and flay her every thought in an instant. They were the blue of the deepest ice in the oldest heart of a glacier, and they were utterly familiar. The whiteout she'd experienced the last time she'd looked into those eyes before hit her again, that feeling of being encased in ice, of imminent death by hypothermia, of cold pounding merciless as a hammer into her very soul...

You, she barely stopped herself saying, and dropped her eyes to the desktop again. The sensation of clawing cold diminished, but did not abate entirely. "My lord," she did say aloud, and cursed herself for the audible hoarseness in her voice. "You may remember me. I--" came to your attention despite Lucien's attempts to prevent it-- "met you recently. I know your name." She managed to lift her gaze to the hollow of his throat, but no farther. "I know that you have laid claim to Lucien Mallorek's soul.?

"I am here to reclaim it and return it to him, my lord."

The censer's smoke twisted through a subtle dance at the edges of her vision. Lines of unnamed runes swarmed and swam through curls of it, moving in time to the insistent white noise pulse that seemed determined to force its way through the seams in the bones of her skull and fill up the empty places that Anne had torn into her head. She looked at none of it; she did not dare look away from him. Her only point of reference was the hollow of his throat, and her only means of inferring his mood was his voice, the set of his mouth just above, the motions of his hands.

"Fair enough," she croaked in reply to his mocking comment regarding how little she truly knew about him, and his demand that she not appropriate even as much of him as was required to show her subservience. She was not in a position to argue. He had what she wanted; she was the supplicant in this particular passion play, ready to bleed and sacrifice herself. He was the one with the power. Her fingers tightened over the arms of the chair, briefly white-knuckled, at the self-admission. If there was one thing that Rebekah truly did not like, it was being powerless.

And so, being Setite, she began to scheme. She detached herself from the squirming horror of his presence, and the overwhelming power that the room itself was hammering at her, and tried to think. This was a show. It might not have been for her benefit at all, no, she might have been no more than an ant in the greater machinations of this...creature. Still, she was its current focus, and this was a display for her current benefit, to her current detriment. It was meant to overwhelm, to render her insensate with terror and majesty. That was what he wanted, to keep her off-balance. She had seen the way he dealt with Lucien, constantly stabbing at him with small sharp barbs of aggression and derision, undermining reason with strong emotion and then sliding the knife home when Lucien no longer thought for himself. It would make his negotiations easier, force more from her. Therefore, she must not give in.

He asked her why she wanted it so badly. He wanted to know what she would offer in trade. He had the unmitigated gall to offer her a drink. She watched his fingers steeple, heard the faint click of his talons, one against the other, in the spaces between drumbeats of static. They shined like obsidian in the dim and heavy light.

"No," she said hoarsely, politely. "I am not thirsty at all, thank you." She sipped in a little more of the tainted air and went on, speaking to his chin, those talons. "I am prepared to offer the soul of an elder lord of faerie in trade for Lucien Mallorek's, Lord Yhaull." Let the negotiations begin in earnest, now, she thought, and closed her eyes briefly.

?Perchance now, Ms. Vincent, ye?d like that drink?? He procured a decanter from somewhere in the dark room behind her ? the barbaric cadence continuing in earnest. ?By the sound of ye voice, Ms. Vincent, ye mouth is as arid as the deserts from whence ye came.? Upon removal of the stopper, an intoxicating scent arose to meet the senses, the aroma of finely aged brandy ? its caramel hue matching the coloration of her skin perfectly as he held it up to what little light in the office was at hand. ?A full-bodied vintage, I dare say, with the longevity of lothario basking in the ecstacy of their bed-mate's first time. Have ye experienced many lotharios in ye day, Ms. Vincent?? He gloated, knowingly smiling due to the fact that his trivial little questions were no distraction from the danger Rebekah was currently in; a fact he relished to no end. The dawning doom made her seem all the more exquisite a specimine; that much more vulnerable.

?I find good company, good libation, and good atmosphere are the makings of a grand time.? At some time during the conversation, he?d donned a cruel smile for her viewing pleasure, walking once more back into view of her periphery. ?The unanswered question still remains, however. How long ye stay depends on how convincing ye can be in the bartering of forbidden things. Tell me true, sinner, for how long do ye fancy mine honored company, hmmm? Forever? Or is it more at the length it takes to strike a deal and be gone as quickly as possible? Tis not often I see the viper playing the role of the mouse. Know this, I realize ye are no innocent soul, Ms. Vincent. Thieft. Murder. Lies. Deceit. Manipulation. The laundry list I could make of ye exploits is extensive.? Was he bluffing, or did he really know that much about her? Was it guess-work; educated estimation based on snippets of gleaned knowlegde? Was he truly this omnipresent, or was he full of it and everything else? His movements were calculated, precise, and without err. He wasn't giving anything away he didn't want put out there, that much was obvious. It was almost as though he'd played this game for more than a handful of centuries. A master of his caliber, such skill might take a millenia or two to aquire.

It was then that the figure of the lord, in her periphery, moved very close. A lean forward brought his upper torso to rest on the top of the chair. His long white hair fell forward of his shoulders, lightly tracing along her own and the same area of her nape he?d gazed at before. His breath was spiced, scented of mulled wine, and was both warm and cold simultaneously ? an odd sensation ? as it brushed the lobe of her ear in his whisper. ?To love Mr. Mallorek is to know misery eternal, luv, I do hope this is a realization ye take to heart?? pause, then softly whispered in conspiritorial manner ?...by manner of speaking. His past relationships with women have not been fortunate; they often leave him a ruin of what he once was. He is the honey that draws the flies, luv, and I am the web what catches them.? The sound of air entering olfactory cavities in a sharp intake of breath came next, inhaling her fragrance along with the act.

Something on the edge of his voice, the sharp point of the words, was almost an allude to her that he knew what she was, and could possibly sense things about her that might not be known publically ? sensitive, personal, intimate things. Just before he came close enough to touch his lips to the back corner of her jaw on the right side of her face, he drew away. His robes billowed as he made his way around the desk and seated himself, ceremoniously, in his chair ? fastidious as ever. Amid adjusting and resituating his flowing robes, he spoke; the decanter remained neglected, dangling by its neck in the fingers of his off-hand. ?Perhaps what I truly wish to possess in trade for Lucien?s soul has already delivered herself to me. What do ye think of that, Ms. Vincent?? The door to the office slammed shut with reverb.; the sound of metal against oiled metal came next as the bolt slid into place. " 'Welcome to my parlor,' said the spider to the fly."

?Of no use ye say?? Though his tone was cynical, he seemed slightly distracted; as though what she was saying wasn?t at all intriguing. He was reminiscent of a tiger lying in wait for the unsuspecting man or woman to come to the river to wash clothes. Finally, he quit fusing with his robes, the jewels sparkling as they refracted the yellow light of the hearth and the candles situated around and amongst them. The chiding remark was even brushed aside without so much as a word, though his brow furrowed and his gaze became that intense gaze of kings as he lifted frosted-blue eyes to her visage, mouth forming a thin line. His lips broke their seal as he was about to speak on the topic of traps, and her current situation, when the name of Lucien?s former amorous confidant was uttered.

Parted lips began to curl upward, exposing enamel, black tongues, and purple gum-line ? slow as molasses ? whilst he allowed her to continue. Obviously she was caught-up in the whirlwind of her tirade ? or perhaps she was a daredevil unafraid for her own safety for the thrill ? for she was obviously missing, or ignoring, the macro and micro expressions shifting in his features and posture that might tell one they were fueling a growing, deadly fury. Like the desert asp, the dreadful malice and rage coiled inside of him, ready to strike at a moment?s notice.

?You? Presumptuous? Cairo? sewer rat! Ammut eat ye heart! Do nae think for one moment ye have the upper-hand in mine demesne. Do nae delude yeself into thinking ye are the one running the show ye insignificant, snide little jackal. Know this, if you address me like that, or speak that witch?s name again in mine presence, I?ll personally pull out those f---ing eye-teeth of yours. Do ye have the capacity to fathom mine point thus far? I?d hope so, for were I ye, I would not wish to survive the ordeal I am currently designing; it will not be ye voice or pride that is injured when all is said and done.? His eyes shone with cerulean-white flame behind the frosted surface, flickering behind as though glimpsed through stained and frosted panes of glass.

?Tis that, or I pump ye body full of enough hemo-toxin to send ye into one of ye lovely centuries-long comas. Thereafter, barter a trade from this Eiderdown for something I may find useful, as ye have made so clearly evident that ye are nae, and hand ye over in exchange. A smart leech would sit back and listen when more vicious monsters speak their mind, new to eternal death or nae, ye are certainly acting the part with sweeping verve and panache. Ye claim to be devoid of foolishness, though continue bating mineself in mine own offices; this is the paragon of fool-hardy behavior, Daughter of Caine, tread carefully for ye have miss-stepped, and are in danger of becoming something much less than ye are now.?

There was a long term of silence after his outburst. The thrumming in the room had ceased completely. No sound filtered through or under the door from outside in the halls. They were completely alone. The flames flared of their own accord, the audible sound of oxygen being consumed ? as well as the greater amounts of firelight brought to bear ? both happened simultaneously. He was beyond caring what affect the naked flames might due to her current mental state. He could sense her beast stirring, and knew it was growing more and more playful ? much closer than before to frenzy.

As a great show of anger?sound and fury signifying nothing, of that she had no doubt?unfolded across the desk from her, Rebekah kept her head down and her gaze dropped. At the end of it she had less than she'd hoped for, but more than she'd feared. No promise outright, no, no binding contract. A "let's see what you can do." It was better than nothing, but the door behind her was still closed, and the sound boring into her head was still pounding at her.

Then he lifted the decanter onto the table and revealed its source. She stared at it, watched it pulse and throb on the desk between them, and fell into a vast terrific silence. This was like the culmination of a nightmare. It was like being a part of the Temple of Set again, where everything was measured in tithes and bargains struck. She very nearly hated him, then, for the reminder of her youth and everything she had fought so hard to escape.

She could hardly hear herself speak, as she struggled to keep it from her face. "Of course, Lord Yhaull." There was a roaring in her ears that drowned out the quivering, twitching monstrosity. Was she whispering or screaming? "Ten pints now, and another five when I bring you Eiderdown." It showed him just how old she was, that she could give so much. "Consider it an apology for my hasty words." She rose, stripped off her jacket, approached the desk and rolled up the sleeve of Lucien's shirt. Her skin was very white in the red-edged dimness. "I have appreciated your willingness to speak with me." She drew out the knife with exquisite slowness, and laid the edge against her arm. "Thank you."

There was no sense of transition afterward, only an awareness of time lost. She was standing on the street corner outside the brownstone, and she was cold, so cold...the hand holding the chalice on the sign seemed to mock her. She had to feed, she was starving; and she had what she'd come for, and a fresh enemy added to her very long list. Rebekah squared her shoulders against their desire to curl inward and walked away, whistling an off-key tune.

(Rebekah's story is continued in The Caper.)