Page 97 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy
There was a shiver in the air, as when a cloud passes the sun. Aurienne looked up. She and Mordaunt were no longer alone. Lady Windermere stood in the doorway of the study.
“Lady Windermere. What a p-pleasure,” said Mordaunt, in thesmooth way he did when trying to buy himself time. It wasn’t working well; he was slumped against the desk and his jaw was hardly working.
In Lady Windermere’s hand gleamed a blaecblade.
Aurienne recognised the blade as that of Brythe, the Fyren killed by Mordaunt in her defence.
Mordaunt attempted to focus his eyes. “Were you going through my personal collections? Bit rude, if I’m honest.”
Lady Windermere casually unfurled her whip. “I’ve had a suspicion for a long time that you were responsible for killing Brythe. I’d like to know why you did it.”
The whip snaked out and bound Mordaunt’s wrists together. With a tug, Lady Windermere brought Mordaunt to his knees before her. “I shall begin by removing your eyes.”
Aurienne gasped, which brought her presence to Lady Windermere’s attention.
“The Haelan.” Still holding Brythe’s blaecblade, Lady Windermere took an unhurried step towards Aurienne. Her tacn gleamed red. “Unfortunately for you, I don’t want a witness.”
Unfortunately for Lady Windermere, Aurienne had seen Mordaunt in action too often to not know what was coming. There was a shadow directly behind her.
Fyren were predictable that way.
Aurienne spun around with her tacn illuminated and pressed it to Lady Windermere’s cheek just as the Fyren materialised there.
Aurienne had intended only to incapacitate, not kill—until she felt the prick of the blaecblade between her ribs.
Her seith flew into Lady Windermere’s cranial seith channels and blew them open.
Mrs. Parson burst into the room along with Mordaunt’s deofol. They arrived just in time to witness Lady Windermere’s brain take the path of least resistance and ooze out of her tear ducts.
19
I Can Make Her Worse
Osric
Osric groaned himself into consciousness. He knew that there was fuckery afoot, but he could not recollect what it was. Clues came in the form of voices discussing sedative drugs.
He had a splitting headache. Cool, glassy seith swept into him and alleviated the migraine. He fell asleep again. His dreams were troubled and featured disturbing images of leaking brains and a cow.
He was alone when he awoke. The taste of sick lingered disgustingly in his mouth. He might be sick again.
No: he was not alone. Mrs. Parson’s deofol, a stocky badger, floated above him. Her name was Wilhelmina, and she was even more sensible than Mrs. Parson.
She floated closer to Osric and peered at him nearsightedly. “Awake at last.”
“Where’m I? What time is it?”
“Your rooms,” said Wilhelmina. “Quarter past five in the morning.An unusual time for you to be awake. Can’t fault you for being confused.”
Osric opened his eye more widely. He was, indeed, in his bedchamber. There was an empty chair at his bedside.
“If you’re going to be sick again, kindly aim for the bucket,” said Wilhelmina. “We’ve only so much spare bedding.”
The deofol disappeared to fetch Mrs. Parson, who came in with a pot of tea. “Pleased to see you conscious.”
“Not pleased to be conscious,” said Osric. “What happened to me? Am I getting old, Mrs. Parson? It was three drinks. I’ve never been so completely trolleyed.”
“Windermere drugged you,” said Mrs. Parson. “Haelan Fairhrim saved you.”
