Chapter 1

This narrative is not a happy one. Nor am I your hero. For the sake of whatever good is left in this world, I have decided to warn you before you continue on, if you should decide to, that is. This tale is not for the faint of heart; it is not a pleasant story of a heroic narrator that saves the day, and you will not learn any higher moral ground lesson to engrain into your soul. You will surely not be pleased. You should not like me; in fact, I would pity you to do so.

Shall we start off this tale with the beginnings of my life, with a once upon a time or a long, long ago? We could, but you would be most certainly bored with the ever expansive details. That’s not really where my story begins, anyways; my world didn’t start until the year of 3012. That was the year that I met Sydney Chorster.
            Already this sounds like a romance. You are thinking I fell in love with this woman, terribly, disastrously in love. Perhaps. I have never been one for passionate pleas of love and the pathetic blabbering of poetry. This is not a romance, by any means. I will start off my story by mentioning a day, not too long ago, that was just like any day of mine before; spent in a pub, running an errand.

Now, I’ve spent a lot of times at various bars, pubs, clubs, and discos, what have you, around the globe. This one was particularly monotonous, and I could not get myself to even enjoy the glass of sweet sweet alcohol that swirled carelessly in my hand.

            How did I get myself here, I wondered, skulking in the corner of this pathetic excuse for a pub, the lights flickering pathetically above me. I glanced over my shoulder to a brilliant raven, a creature that cost me quite a fortune, and slowly had become my companion throughout my long lifetime. Its intelligent eyes peered at the intoxicated inebriants around us, obviously irritated at my choice of destination.

            This was, however, not my choice, as is nothing in my life. Absentmindedly, I twirled the White Russian in my hand, waiting for it to take effect. The ice clinked softy against the glass and I brought the sweet toxin to my mouth. I detest this work that I am obliged to do. My raven crowed angrily, clawing at my arm in an attempt to keep me focused.

            “Hades, is that any way to treat your master?” I purred, amused, and put down my drink to stroke his long, black feathers. It cawed delightfully in response, and I chuckled, turning my attention back to my prey.

            Clark McKinley was a young man whose master art was the business of the con, stealing thousands of dollars from unsuspecting, innocent fools tricked into giving him money. I had to give respect to the man, he was good at what he did. Even better at destroying the evidence after killing his victims when they found out they were conned and threatened to report him to the police. That’s something I never understood. Why report the man to the police? Figure that they were already conned, why they would mess around with someone who was obviously dangerous is beyond my comprehension. Good for my business, however, so can’t complain.

            I looked down at the manila folder in my hands, in which contents lay the incriminating and, arguably evil acts of this Mr. McKinley. Personal information, business files, psychiatric evaluations, overdue bills; apparently, he had even been diagnosed with an antisocial personality disorder. Fitting, I rendered, considering his complete and total disregard for the rules of human nature. Which is, of course, my master.

            McKinley and three other men were sitting around a table at a moment, smoking their cigars and ignoring the rest of the pub’s commotion. Intrigued, I downed the rest of the drink in one gulp, relishing the aftertaste it left in my throat. I got up, leaving the shadows to saunter over to the group of men. They glared at me suspiciously.

            “You gentlemen wouldn’t mind an extra player, now would you?” I drawled, as I threw a large slab of cash on the table. A gingered man with a full beard and small sneaky eyes fingered the money carefully, his lips twitching with greed as he noticed the wad was plenty full of Benjamin Franklins. He nodded to McKinley, and the con man smirked, gesturing me to sit down.

            “We’d be mighty pleased to have you join us,” McKinley answered, his voice thick with southern accent, which I assumed he acquired from all those years down in Texas, working the con trade, “Name’s McKinley. This here is my good friend Ethan Lane,” he nodded towards the red haired man, “and these here are Nathan Kwan and William Jackling. We’re business partners, you see.” And with that he smiled, pushing his long blonde stands of hair out of his face and peering at me with pale, quick eyes.

            I grabbed a pack of Marlboros from my pockets, quirking a smile of my own and offering them to the other men. They declined, save McKinley, who I could tell just from the yellowing stains on his teeth was an avid smoker. I took a long drag, inhaling the sweet fumes before puffing out a large, smoky grey cloud in their faces. They coughed, and sneered.

            “Klaus.” I told them, taking another drag before looking down questioningly at the cards. McKinley grinned boyishly.

            “You know Klaus, I think I like you,” he said, before shuffling the cards with his rough, tan fingers, “Not many men around here have the gall to challenge us to a game. And such high stakes too!” he exclaimed, looking down at the roll of cash glinting maliciously on the table, “How you come about such money, hoss?”

            I grinned back at him, “Like you, just good business.”

            Clark laughed heartily at that, “Good man. The game’s Texas Hold’em. You know how to play, I presume?” I nodded.

McKinley dealt two cards to each of the four players and myself, and then dealt five cards in the middle of the table, consisting of a ten of hearts, seven of spades, ten of diamonds, king of hearts, and a jack of hearts. He looked towards Nathan and Lupus who were both on his left, “Okay gentlemen, let’s start posting the binds. Left starts.” Nathan took out a twenty dollar bill, while I placed forty dollars on the table, staring at them through the tops of my eyes.
            Start off cheap, I don’t want to ruin the fun too early, I figured.

And so the game had begun.

Ethan began, looking down at his cards then back up, “fold.” he said. The men took time looking at their cards, contemplating their choices. William looked at his cards, then called the binds. The tension in the room seemed unbearable, and eyes darted back and forth from each player, trying to read each other’s poker face. Nathan folded, while Clark and I called the binds, resulting in the call for a showdown. William flipped over his two cards, revealing a classic three of a kind hand.

“Well, that sure is a hand there, Will,” he said, causing Will to glance at him in annoyance, “But I do believe that I might have something a bit better than a three of a kind.” he stated, then went on to flip his cards over.

“Four of a kind,” McKinley stated, smirking and leaning back in his chair, his hands behind his head. He looks around at the other players, who sighed and growled frustratingly, throwing their cards on the table. I looked down at his cards and shrugged, placing them on the table for all to see.

“Royal Straight Flush,” I state, revealing the royal flush of red hearts, including the queen, king and ace of hearts. The other players gasped slightly, their eyes transfixed on the cards laid in front of them. Not often had they seen such a rare hand. I laughed at their surprised reaction.

            Clark chuckled, breaking the silence, “Well, now. I think we’ve found ourselves a true gentleman poker player, boys,” he said, taking a drag on the cigarette and giving me a long look, “No wonder he was so eager to play.”

Will sighed, looking down at his watch then back up at the other players, regret shone in his eyes, “Sorry mates, but I’ve gotta get home, the wife awaits me.” he looked over at Ethan, “did you need a ride home?”

Ethan looks around to see nobody else offer him, and then nodded, getting up as well. He shrugged on his black leather jacket, sighing “I should get home too. Work tomorrow”.

Clark laughed at the two and shrugged, “Well then, I guess that’s that. Tell your wife I said hello.” he told Will, winking. Will laughed forcefully, before heading out the door with Ethan trailing behind. He sighed, looking at Nathan and myself, “Well, guess there’s no point playing when there are only three of us left.”

Nathan sighed, laying back in the chair and cursing softly in Korean, “I guess that means it’s time for me to leave as well. The boss beats me like a dog, I swear.”

The blond southerner chuckled, leaning back in his seat and resting his shaggy head on his hands. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, as if contemplating something or thinking of something important, before moving his eyes towards me. I stared back, and my gray eyes observed a flash of worry flicker quickly in the other man’s eyes.

“Well how about you, hoss? You gonna go up and leave me like the rest of them too?” he asked, his thick southern accent echoed throughout the pub. I shrugged, looking down at the cards in my hand and throwing them on the table.

“I think I’m good for the night, I’ve stolen enough of your money” I exclaimed, grabbing my own wad of cash and the rewards from the departed players and stuffing it down my jean pockets. Clark sighed, grabbing his wallet and throwing me my earning.

“Well then, I hope to play with you again so that I can get back all that dough you cheated me from.” he grinned cockily. He started to get up before staggering a bit, grabbing on to the side of his chair to keep from falling over.

 “Perhaps I should walk you out? From what I saw you knocked back more whiskey than the rest of us put together.” I joked, taking his arm and escorting him out the door. He looked annoyed at first but shrugged, leaning his weight on me. His eyes blinked rapidly as it adjusted to the dark night. There were only two cars left in the desolated parking lot; his large, red pickup truck that looked like it could use a new paint job and a new set of wheels, and my camero. He whistled.

“Well look at that,” he sighed in awe, before narrowing his eyes at me, “what kind of job did you say you had again?”

I stared, “I didn’t.”

And with that, he saw blackness.

 

 

            When McKinley opened his eyes he was in a chamber the likes of which he never saw before. The ceiling was a swirling sea of obsidian, and the walls around him were painted with pictures reminiscing the arts of early Renaissance painters. However, no human could ever create masterpieces to stand against these works of arts. No, no man, not Michelangelo, not Donatello, nor Raphael, could ever had produced such splendor.

Portraits of small, lurking demons hid in every corner, their skin painted as dark as the sky above him. Intelligent yellow eyes peered down at him, slits like a feral feline, and claws so long they could rip ones soul out. Above them, large, sculpted bodies adorned with glistening muscles towered above them, grand ivory feathers obstructing their perfect shoulder blades.

On the other side of the chamber was a large wall with a giant fire place, fifty feet high, he reckoned. The glittering gold and orange flames scotched and danced across the sheen of his eyes, mocking him as he stared into the blazing pit.

            It was then he realized he could not move.

            He peered down at himself to see large, leather bonds strapping him to a long, black table. He struggled against the bonds, but it was no use, and he laid back and accepted this twisted paralysis.

            Once more, Clark turned his attention to the paintings surrounding him, as if to find some comfort in their oily scrawls. It was then that he noticed that they were placed in a specific order, as if to tell some sort of story. Enchanted, he looked on.

            The first portrait depicted a young girl, just old enough to be blossoming into womanhood. Her auburn hair sprawled down to her ankles, creating a large, red pool around her as if she was some mythical nymph or goddess. Her skin was painted the fairest of porcelain, and her eyes were closed as she mournfully looked down. Her hands, so delicate it was if she was a doll, were closed around a gleaming silver sword, and a bright light surrounded her holy figure, as if she was as special as the Virgin Mother herself.

            The next painting depicted a man riding a white horse, with the same sword raised proudly in his right hand, as if claiming victory. The man had a haughty bearer, his sharp chin jutting proudly out, his long pale hair fluttering in the wind as if he had not a care in the world. He was a warrior, bent on conquest and only accepting victory within his mighty clutches. A land of horror encompassed his figure, as thousands of dead bodies surrounded him, as their souls started drifting away from their cold masters. The angels above him looked down on the scene in sorrow, and the red faced demons snarled in delight.

            The southerner gasped in horror at the next portrait, which was splattered with only hues of reds and scarlet colors which made up the maddening sky and the bloodied ground. The girl is crying, holding a lifeless body to her breast as she looks upon a second figure on a powerful steed. This man possessed none of the brave, yet haughty qualities of the first warrior; instead, his face gleamed with pleasure as he rose up a corpse’s head. The man’s garments were soaked with the blood of the innocent, and it was then that the disfigured demons danced around him, their small legs jumping and twisting with joy.

            A third horseman had appeared in the next painting, however, much different than the previous two, for this horseman, was, in fact, a woman. Yes, a long legged, fair woman with beauty surpassing, perhaps, the ginger haired nymph in the first portrait. She had gotten of her black mare, and kneeled down upon the dead bodies in shame. Her raven hair fell in soft curls around her bare shoulders, and her ivory gown was tainted with crimson pools around the hem. In her hands, she carried a pair of scales; one scale held a black stone, and the other, a white stone. The obsidian stone plunged down against the ground.

            It was then that he noticed the final horseman, and narrowed his eyebrows darkly at the man he saw in the image. A young man, with long, dark hair was carrying the nymph in his hands, almost as a lover would hold his bride. His face was cast down in shame, and a healthy looking raven perched on his shoulder, looking down at the woman in his master’s hands. While he could not see the entire face, Clark had no doubt about this man in the painting.

            Klaus. The man he met at the pub.

            But…where was he now? He struggled once more against the bonds, remembering how he had felt a painful blow to his head before he blacked out. It must have been him; that man in the painting was the man he met at the pub.

            A vicious caw tremored in his ears, and looked over to see a scrawny raven perched over him, glaring. Its dark eyes held an intellect he never seen before in a regular bird, and it seemed to be waiting for him to do something. It screeched once more.

            “Shoo, go away,” Clark growled, annoyed at the pesky creature whose eyes carried such mirth in his suffering.

            A slight clicking sound across the floor recaptured his attention, and he struggled to raise his head to see a dark figure glide towards him. He gulped, his eyes widening in fear and his pants soaking in wet, warm urine as fear trickled over his body. The figure laughed slightly, a cold, distant laugh that seemed to him rather forced.

            “Hades, stop disturbing our guest,” the voice sniggered, also taking glee in his prisoner’s predicament. The voice stopped just above his head and stared down at its captured prey.

            Klaus’s stormy gray irises burnt in self-gratification, and his smiled widened to reveal glistening pearly canines.

            “I regret to inform you that your life will never be the same, Mr. McKinley,” he stated smoothly, peering down at the tanned young man sweating under his gaze, “Usually I would be the one to instruct you onwards, but I have business to take care of, and you are a waste of my time.”

            The human’s throat hitched, “What’s going on? How did I get here? Where am I?” he stuttered. Another clicking sound commenced, this time at a wilder pace, and Klaus looked up, satisfied, before glancing back down at the cowering man.

            “No doubt you have many questions, but do not fear, for they shall be answered,” he glanced up once more and smiled, “Yasmine, here, can help you sort out all of your questions.”

            And with that said he walked away, as silent as the night, with that damned bird of his following swiftly behind him like a faithful lapdog. A woman replaced him, and he inhaled once more in amazement.

            “You are that woman from the painting!” he exclaimed.

            Yasmine, he assumed, giggled softly at his surprise, her laugh sounding like soft wind chimes fluttering in the breeze. Green, like shards of glass held up to the sun, shined down at him coyly under thick black eyelashes.

            “Very astute, Mr. McKinley, I am impressed,” she chimed, once more, and he closed his eyes in pleasure at her soft voice. It had been the kindest sound he heard since waking. Her long, elegant fingers worked silently to release him from his bonds, her dark eyebrows narrowing in concentration. When she finally got rid of them she clapped, smiling as he sat up slowly, cracking his muscles at every ache and pain. “So sorry that we had to chain you up, but it’s quite necessary. You see, when most people come down here for the first time, they freak out,” she laughed, “so we have to restrain you before you can hurt yourself or anyone else!”

            Clark, while his muscles ached, was still strong enough to pin the small woman to the wall, his tan arms grasping onto her shoulders as he looked at her in fury.

            “Where am I?” he yelled in her ears, causing her to wince slightly, “Why am I here? Who are you people and why did you kidnap me?”

            Her gaze narrowed, and all of a sudden that sweet, soft demeanor warped into a harsh, violent one that shrugged him away. “He did not tell you, did he?” she stated, staring coldly at the man who dared lay a finger on her person.

            Clark’s eyes flickered, “Tell me what?”

            The small woman smiled then, as if relishing in what she was about to tell him. “You’re dead, Mr. McKinley. This is the underworld, and there is no going back.”

 

 

            The indigo, leather bound book in my hands was yellowing at the creases; an ancient book that I had kept in my possession for so long that it became a part of my soul.

            I laughed at the thought. As if I even had a soul anymore.

            But before I go on to explain the properties of this book, let me make a formal introduction. I am known as Klaus, and no, I have no last name to go by, nor do I desire any. And I have been serving in the underworld as the keeper of death for as long as I can remember.

            Yes, you have heard correctly. As the prophet John so deliciously explained in his book of Revelation, four horse lords will rise from the underworld and bring about the end of the world, the final judgment, and the destruction of everything good and holy in this world. Dead bodies everywhere, demons eating humans, blah blah blah.

            An exaggeration, perhaps, but his message is clear enough. You’re doomed.

            I am the horseman of Pestilence, or Death, as the modern interpretations have so claimed my name to be. Apparently I am followed by the god of the underworld, Hades.

            I snorted, thinking of my pet raven, Hades. Fierce god, indeed. Biblical theologians really had to start working on their translating skills, as this is becoming ridiculous.

            Oh, and don’t get me started on the passages claiming that I carry a scythe, an object that has been popularly used with my person for many years. Why I would lug around an agricultural tool used for reaping crops is beyond me. Wouldn’t that have made more sense with to go with the horsemen of famine, who would, indeed, reap crops to steal from humanity? Once again, the translations of humans prove rather weak minded.

            Speaking of the horsemen of famine, I wonder how she is doing. Yasmine does not usually have the absolute pleasure and honor of escorting new, corrupt souls to the underworld. I can only imagine how that introduction must have gone.

            “Klaus, Nolan is looking for you,” a voice interrupted my musing, and I looked over to see Josiah’s slender figure leaning on the door frame of my chamber. Josiah, a demon you may know more popularly as the horseman of war, was one of the most arrogant, blood thirsty gits you would ever meet.

            I closed my book, sighing and swiveled, oh yes, we have modern appliances in hell as well, my chair over to face him, “Why?”

            He shrugged, examining his clawed fingernails, “How should I know? You are second in command, yes?”

            Ah ha, jealousy. Josiah was always jealous of the close connection I had with our leader, Nolan, the horseman of conquest. Perhaps if he spent more time doing his job, he could have gained his favor. There hasn’t been a world war in years! I do enjoy his sadistic nature of having Germany take the brunt of punishment in every war, however. It never gets old.

            I ignored him, however, and pushed him out of the way as I strolled towards the lord’s chambers. Lord Nolan was, in every possible meaning of the word, our prince. Son of the king of the underworld himself, Nolan embodied the cockiness and rudeness that came with royal blood. He was a spoiled prince, and had not enjoyed being defeated in any sense of the term. One must tread carefully around such a cold, rash princeling.

            He was, at the moment, diverted by the presence of beautiful demon women, all long legs and blonde, with ample breasts and flat stomachs. However, it is not quite the scene one would expect. Nolan looked bored, in fact, and was attempting to read paper work while being consistently bothered by these lovely sirens. I wondered how long it would take before he got tired of their presence and ordered them out of his presence.

            He looked up from his work and appeared relieved at my presence, “Klaus. I cannot express how glad I am that you have finally arrived,” and with that, he waved the women off, who sighed sadly and cooed to stay longer. He glowered at the women, and they finally got the hint that they were unwanted, and strutted off, annoyed.

            I watched as their hips swayed back and forth under long, colorful sarongs before returning my attention to Nolan.

            The prince was painfully beautiful, with a body that an Italian Renaissance painter would claim was sculpted from the heavens. Hah, how ironic. A strong chin, broad shoulders, and taut muscles adorned his body, which was almost as fair as the porcelain doll Yasmine. His hair, long and silvery, went straight down to his lower back. And eyes, the fairest of blue, were cold and calculating as I kneeled down before him. I was worried that he would be displeased that I had kept him waiting, leaving him in the presence of those harlequins for too long. 

            “Lord Nolan, you wished to see me?” I asked quietly, hoping that my outward show of respect would hinder any ill feelings he may have had towards me at the moment.
            Of course not.

            “I had wished to see you ten minutes ago, Klaus,” he said coolly, “but you have arrived late. Did Josiah deter too long before arriving to your chambers?” he wondered to himself.

            Hmm. Blame Josiah, and let him face the consequences, or tell the truth that I had dallied.

            While blaming Josiah sounds a more favorable option, I can’t lie. The prince can smell a lie, and I’d face an even harsher punishment for lying.

            “I dallied, my lord,” I admitted softly, “by no means is this any fault of Josiah.”

            He nodded, seemingly appeased by the fact that I did not try to lie to him. The door made a loud sound, as it unhinged and slammed back. I heard a steady pitter patter behind me, and I didn’t need to look to see who it could have been. His cold eyes looked past my knelling figure, to the other figure in the room. He smiled slightly, before returning his attention back to me.

            “I am unsatisfied, Klaus, with the way the archangels have been able to halt our progress in obtaining the seven daggers of Megiddo and I wish to have a meeting, as you will,” he looked up at the figure standing behind me, “I trust you and Yasmine to carry out this demand. I have no desire to sully myself talking to those big headed creatures and so I ask you to do this for me. Mind you, this is not a request.”

            Ah, the seven daggers, of course he would want to find those before any human gets a hold of them. For the uninformed, these seven daggers of Megiddo are seven holy daggers, made by God and brought down to earth by the archangel Gabriel. Their function? Through their blessed power, they are the only weapon to kill the Antichrist. And, well, Nolan being the only son of the Devil, it’s only natural to keep them away from human grasp.

            “Yes, my lord,” we answered in union. I frowned slightly.

            “Why is Josiah not assigned to this project as well?” I asked, slightly perturbed at why he would bother Yasmine with such an assignment and not Josiah. Nolan scoffed angrily, whether at the insolence I had for questioning him, or at Josiah, I did not know.          

            “Josiah cannot be bothered with such an assignment, I do not trust him talking to those people and they hate him,” he proclaimed in annoyance, “I do not need a fight starting because that cheeky demon cannot hold his tongue. No, I’d much rather you and Yasmine to carry out such a task. You, Klaus, will go because you have experience talking with those swine and they respect you, and Yasmine, if only perhaps that her beauty can persuade them.”

            It was such an outward and careless compliment that I almost gasped in shock, and looked over to see Yasmine blushing slightly, her gaze drifting to the marble floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.

            Nolan, however, was unemotional as always, “You may leave now.”

            “Yes, my lord,” we answered, and walked out of his chamber as quickly as possible, as to not trigger any wrath from him by our mere presences alone. I look sideways at the young woman, who was still carrying her head down as she silently pleaded her pale cheeks to stop burning.

            I cleared my throat, grabbing her attention, “So, how was your first time introducing a human to the underground?” I asked, attempting to make pleasant conversation. She smiled slightly, wringing her long fingers together to calm the nerves she still obviously carried due to our lord’s praise.

            “He was not very thrilled, that was plain as day,” she replied, and smiled slightly, her pale rose dress rustling slightly as it dragged across the floor, “but I don’t suppose many humans would be when they found out their souls were destined for Hell.”

            I laughed, “No, but they deserve such a fate.”

            She looked at me for a while, “Do they always act out so violently?”

            My dark eyebrows narrowed, “Sometimes, but I usually have no problem putting such garbage in its place,” I glanced at her small form, “did he give you much trouble?”

            She huffed slightly, “Of course not, such vermin could never overcome me,” she spit, and she started pacing faster and I rushed to catch up with her. It was obvious that the encounter had not gone as I had planned, but not unexpected, as Clark had a skill in making women hate him. Hesitantly, I placed my arm around her shoulder, holding her closer to my body. She hadn’t protested, but I could feel her small shoulders tense at the contact, obviously uncomfortable. My futile attempt at compassion, however, was cut short when we heard a loud cackle behind us, and we looked to see Josiah grinning impishly at the scene, clapping his hands all the while.

            “Oh, how chivalrous, Klaus, for such a scene of heroic gesture,” he snickered, his sadistic smile widening and revealing his sharp canines, “You must show me how to do that, some time. How I wish I could get that woman as closely as you do.”

            Yasmine’s jade eyes narrowed, and she jutted her chin out proudly, “I need no hero,” she proclaimed, shoving my larger body off her person, “and I most certainly would not desire to be anywhere close to you, Josiah. Now run along and bother somebody else, you are not needed here.”

            Josiah whistled at her coldness, “Wow there, lover boy, way to get turned down,” he laughed, ignoring his own insult from her, “but alas, watching you make a fool of yourself was not the reason I came here"”

            “You want to know what Nolan asked of us, correct?” she asked, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips and she held her head up vainly, “Upset that you were not invited?”

            “Hardly,” he snarled, playing into her games. She gave him a look that said she was not convinced. I rolled my eyes at their antics.

            “Nolan had asked us to do a favor for him, that is all,” I said, attempting to play mediator and stop their antagonizing before it went out of hand. He growled at her before turning his attention to me once more.

            “What favor?”

            “He does not trust you with this information, beast,” Yasmine chimed happily, enjoying his displeasure. Gods, she could be a sadist. “Your foul temper dissatisfies him.”

            “Dissatisfies him? What the hell does that mean?”

            “It means all the blood that rushes to your thick head when you get angry is unsatisfactory, in our lord’s eyes,” she says sweetly.

            That blood she was just talking about? Yeah, it was swiftly running towards his head at an alarming pace, “What? Wait just a minute, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind"”

            “Wait, Josiah, stop it,” I yelled, grabbing his arm before he could make a total fool out of himself. Yasmine giggled in pleasure at her trickery, “Nolan will not stomach a foul temper tonight. If you go in there with a skull full of steam he will snap. He is already annoyed with you enough as it is, angering him further will only make it worse. Defiance is not tolerated by our lord.”

            Josiah nodded, calming down and halting his attempt to storm into the room. He glared at the small woman who was smiling to herself, obviously pleased at her ability to cause such a reaction in the hot headed male.

            “Well, we all know that you could never dissatisfy him, could you, Yasmine?” he implied snidely. The room was silent, and none of us dared to breathe as the implication set in our heads. What he just implied…was heresy. If Nolan had heard such scandalous accusations, Josiah would have found himself in a very unpleasant predicament.

            However, Yasmine obtained a cool demeanor and seemed unaffected, “It is our duty to make sure everything is satisfactory for our lord, Josiah,” we flinched at her annunciation of his name…usually she just refers to him as beast or scoundrel, “which is why he does not trust you, and so I must take over your responsibilities.”

            She slowly walked away, picking up her gown so she would not trip. She looked over her shoulder, dark hair caressing her skin, “Don’t make this a habit.” And with that, the small lady vanished, leaving us there in wonder.

Reviews

[Sir Drift & Mr. Pulse]

A story that's not a hero! Yes! That Casino Royal kind of scenes are the ones I love to read. Hook in the middle and kill in the end, Yasmine you frisky girl!