He stares at Emmrich as though the other man has just asked him if the sky is blue. (Or green, rather.) “Same year as it was yesterday. 9:42 Dragon.”
“You’re a Mortalitasi?” That, too, catches him off-guard. He’d always pictured Nevarran death mages as wizened figures wrapped in dusty old cloaks, smelling of incense and mummy dust. It’s difficult to imagine a man as vibrant and alive as Emmrich spending his days fiddling with corpses in some lightless catacomb.
That’s because he isn’t a man, fool, grouses an inner voice that he tentatively identifies as his better judgment. He’s a demon, an exceptionally guileful one, and you’re playing right into his hands.
It’s one thing to know that he’s being toyed with, but quite another to stop himself from taking the bait. “I don’t know. Because you want me to think you’re human? Because you thought it would look rather fetching on me? Perhaps it was merely a passing whim. Your kind is capricious, after all.”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth. His patience is beginning to wear thin, which is likely exactly what Emmrich wants. “My name is Hawke. Garrett Hawke, technically, but no one ever calls me that except my mother—” He realizes his mistake and cuts himself off, but it’s too late. Mentioning his mother is like poking at a poorly healed scab, and the demon is bound to recognize the weak point for what it is.
As if bound to his emotions, his surroundings change subtly. The shadows in the corners of the room deepen, and he spots something white out of the corner of his eye. There, on the mantelpiece, a bouquet of lilies—the calling card of the man who took his mother’s life. He turns away, feeling sick.
When he speaks again, all the irritation is gone from his voice. In its place is weariness. “If you’re such an expert on the Fade, then tell me how to get out of here.” A beat. “Please.”
no subject
“You’re a Mortalitasi?” That, too, catches him off-guard. He’d always pictured Nevarran death mages as wizened figures wrapped in dusty old cloaks, smelling of incense and mummy dust. It’s difficult to imagine a man as vibrant and alive as Emmrich spending his days fiddling with corpses in some lightless catacomb.
That’s because he isn’t a man, fool, grouses an inner voice that he tentatively identifies as his better judgment. He’s a demon, an exceptionally guileful one, and you’re playing right into his hands.
It’s one thing to know that he’s being toyed with, but quite another to stop himself from taking the bait. “I don’t know. Because you want me to think you’re human? Because you thought it would look rather fetching on me? Perhaps it was merely a passing whim. Your kind is capricious, after all.”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth. His patience is beginning to wear thin, which is likely exactly what Emmrich wants. “My name is Hawke. Garrett Hawke, technically, but no one ever calls me that except my mother—” He realizes his mistake and cuts himself off, but it’s too late. Mentioning his mother is like poking at a poorly healed scab, and the demon is bound to recognize the weak point for what it is.
As if bound to his emotions, his surroundings change subtly. The shadows in the corners of the room deepen, and he spots something white out of the corner of his eye. There, on the mantelpiece, a bouquet of lilies—the calling card of the man who took his mother’s life. He turns away, feeling sick.
When he speaks again, all the irritation is gone from his voice. In its place is weariness. “If you’re such an expert on the Fade, then tell me how to get out of here.” A beat. “Please.”