The Sculptor of Eastway

“Is all this really necessary?”

Amrik did not enjoy being blindfolded for what was ostensibly a simple business meeting. He had heard the new Eastway kingpin was eccentric, but really, this was too much. The chair creaked beneath him as he shifted.

“For now, yes,” the Sculptor’s voice was sibilant, low and rich as velvet. “At least until I get to know you a little better, Master Vanthampur.”

“Surely even if I did know what you looked like, you would be at no risk.”

“Still. I do not like to take chances.” Fabric rustled, sounding all the louder for the lack of vision. He wondered if she were seated behind a desk or standing before him, sizing him up. “Now – why don’t you tell me why you wanted this meeting?”

“Just a small matter of courtesy. I have some…work that needs must take place in your neighbourhood. I thought it better to ask permission than forgiveness in this instance.”

“A Baldurian with manners,” she laughed softly. “And a man no less. I’m shocked.”

“What can I say, my mother raised me to be polite.”

Again the rustle of fabric, closer now, and he was certain she was moving around him, circling him where he sat. Amrik hooked one foot up over his knee, relaxing his posture – even blindfolded he was not about to look anything other than at-ease and perfectly in control in front of a Guild kingpin. To do that would concede far too much power. He waited, listening to her soft footsteps pass by on his left, pause behind him.

“Alright then, polite young Vanthampur,” her voice came right by his ear and he couldn’t quite suppress a start. “What manner of work is it you will be conducting in my streets?”

“You are aware of my stock and trade, Madam Sculptor?”

“Loan shark,” the words were almost a hiss of breath against his cheek and he wasn’t sure if she was furious or impressed.

“In a manner of speaking. I have some collections that need making, and those that must be collected from have seen fit to hide themselves in Eastway. They seem to have the mistaken impression that they can escape their obligations there.”

“How foolish.”

“Quite. And I would hate to cause a ruckus without your consent.”

She drew away from him, footsteps whispering across the room, and there was a smooth wooden slide as a drawer opened. Still keeping his pose as relaxed as he could, Amrik let a hand fall to one of the knives in his belt. Just in case.

Then she was back and taking his arm and pressing something into his hand – a rolled paper.

“I am amenable to your work,” she said. “You may make your collections in Eastway.”

“Thank you. Might I remove this blindfold now, and see who it is I’m making deals with?”

A cool hand patted his cheek and he was glad the blindfold hid most of his flinch. The Sculptor gave another soft laugh.

“Perhaps another time, Master Vanthampur. Erica!”

Quick footsteps ascended the stairs and then he was escorted from the room. As soon as he was out of the house the girl removed his blindfold, revealing she was the same girl who had greeted and brought him in earlier. She herself was truly blind – the splash-scar of some magical mishap or other covering the top half of her face.

“Good day, Master Vanthampur,” she said, giving him a polite little curtsey. He watched her go back inside, into the tall, narrow house that was the Sculptor’s home. He stared up at the windows for a few moments before finally shaking his head as he turned to leave. The new Eastway kingpin certainly was an odd one.

He rather thought he liked that.

---

“I must say, I appreciate you letting me use my eyes this time.”

Amrik drank in her office with the keen gaze of someone who liked to know everything about everyone. It was quite lavish – walls draped in beautiful hangings, all bright colours and shimmering silks; Calishite carpets across the floor; elven-carved furniture that must have cost a fortune. How much of it was her choice, he wondered, and how much left over from the previous kingpin?

“I enjoyed our last meeting,” the Sculptor said. She was seated behind her desk, hands folded atop it, and he still could not see her face. Her head was covered by a silken scarf and a black veil, thick layers of elaborate lace that hung down to her chin. Her dress was deep purple, cut low to show an uncommonly pale décolletage accented by thick golden jewellery. Amrik very much approved of that choice.

He did so appreciate gold.

“And yet you still do not want me to see your face. Cautious, even for a kingpin,” he sat with a much more real ease in the chair across from her this time. After all, he could see all of his exits.

“I am still...finding my feet in Eastway,” she said. “It would be unwise to show all my cards too early. There are some who preferred my predecessor.”

“Ah, certainly that’s only because they do not know you yet,” he flashed her a smile and wished he could tell if she returned it.

“You are ever a flatterer, Master Vanthampur. Now – do you have more collections to make in my little kingdom?”

“Not this time, no.”

“Then what do you require of me?”

“Well,” he leaned forwards, elbows on his knees, “I had heard a few whispers that should one require a particularly talented purveyor of death, the Sculptor was the one to speak to.”

“I might be, at that. However, I must warn you that my cadre of killers do not come cheap. Eastway might not be the richest neighbourhood in Baldur’s Gate but that does not mean I undersell my wares.”

Amrik raised an eyebrow.

“Come now, Madam Sculptor, you know who I am. Do you really think I’d try to swindle you out of honest pay for honest work?”

She laughed and the veil rippled slightly and he still could not see her face. Not even the faint shadow of its contours beneath the lace. Was it truly only caution about her identity that made her hide? Was she scarred like the serving-girl Erica, and ashamed of it? Or did it simply amuse her to play the game of intrigue, to keep those around her guessing?

“Alright then,” the Sculptor said, sounding amused, “You have a contract, I assume?”

“Naturally.”

From a pouch he produced a scroll tube and rose to hand it to her. Her fingers brushed the back of his hand, lingering there a moment – they were quite, quite cold, her nails a stony grey. Then her hand withdrew and she plucked the scroll from its leather case to examine it. At length she nodded.

“That can be arranged. Where might I send the bill – since I assume you would not like it delivered to Vanthampur Villa?”

“The Low Lantern is my office of late.”

“Very well.” The scroll vanished into a desk drawer and the finality with which it closed let him know he was being dismissed. “Once again, a pleasure doing business with you, Master Vanthampur.”

“And you, Madam…?” he paused a moment, waiting.

She didn’t give him a name and he realised then that he very, very much wanted to know it. A wry smile crossed his face and he gave her a short bow.

“Good day, Madam Sculptor.”

He left without an escort that time, and though he did not linger he could not help but glance over his shoulder. There was a shadow at the upper window, briefly, then it was gone. Amrik chuckled to himself as he began the long walk back to the Upper City.

He wondered if she’d bring the bill to the Low Lantern herself.

---

She had invited him this time, and he had spent the entire two days since the request had come wondering if it was business, pleasure, or murder she was interested in. He didn’t think he’d done anything to cross her, but with kingpins you never knew if they wanted to throw their weight around a little.

Still, he had arrived on time, the early-evening fog dampening his boots as he made his way through the narrow streets. For a noble to wander around Eastway after dark was usually suicidal – or at the very least extremely foolish. Not for him, though. His reputation might have been less formidable than those that ruled down here but he did not cut the usual foppish figure of an Upper City idiot looking for a cheap thrill. That and the comforting weight of a well-stocked pair of weapons-belts lent his steps a cadence of confidence.

The windows of the Sculptor’s house were lit by a faint glow, warm through the fog, and as Amrik approached the door swung open for him. Erica, the serving-girl, dropped a curtsey as he stepped across the threshold, brushing off his boots on the mat.

“Please, come through to the drawing room, Master Vanthampur.”

On previous visits he had gone straight and only to her office, seen only that and the narrow hall and stairs that led to it. The drawing room was equally small and narrow, and was just as well decorated as the office had been. A low table sat between a wing-backed armchair and a short couch, a fire burning merrily in the hearth, which was flanked by two life-size statues of cowering humans. Intimidating choice. And she was certainly talented, he thought as he examined them, if her chosen moniker was to be believed. Every tensed muscle and fold of cloth was perfectly wrought in stone, the expressions frighteningly lifelike.

“Good of you to come, Master Vanthampur.”

The Sculptor stood in the doorway, this time gowned in deep, arterial crimson. A short half cloak served to hood her and cover her shoulders, and little glitters of golden thread at its edges caught the firelight quite beautifully. An equally golden veil hung over her face, a web of fine thread strung from one side of the hood to the other.

“Please, call me Amrik,” he said. “Surely we’re on good enough terms for that now.”

“Perhaps,” the word held a smile he wished he could see. She motioned to the couch, “Have a seat, if you would. Erica will bring drinks shortly – I’d hate to discuss business on a dry mouth.”

So it was business. A part of him was a little disappointed, he had to admit. He’d half hoped she was as intrigued by him as he was by her. Still, at least it meant she probably wasn’t planning to kill him.

“To what do I owe the honour of your seeking my humble self out for a business proposition?”

He settled onto the couch, leaning back into its plush cushions. The Sculptor joined him, sitting with perfectly upright posture at the other end of the couch, veil angled towards him in a way that had firelight glinting off of the crystal beads he now saw it was set with.

“I find myself in need of...advice,” she began, and was interrupted by Erica’s arrival. The serving-girl set a pair of glasses and a bottle upon the low table.

“Anything else, Miss?” she asked. The Sculptor shook her head.

“That will be all for now, thank you, Erica. If I have further need I will ring for you.”

Eric bowed her head and slipped from the room, the door clicking softly closed behind her. The Sculptor poured both glasses full of a red wine so dark it was almost black, and handed one to him.

“Advice?” Amrik sipped, savoured, and approved – she had excellent taste.

“You are in the business of loaning money to those who have need,” she said. “And of collecting on payments due.”

“I cannot believe that you are in need of such a loan,” Amrik said, raising his eyebrows. She laughed, the sound of it as luxurious as the wine.

“No, no, my finances are in fine condition. But I have someone in my employ who has not delivered as promised. They do not owe me money – rather, work, and they have seen fit to vanish rather than complete the job.”

“I am no tracker of killers, Madam Sculptor--” he started, and she lifted a hand.

“I would not ask you to do such a thing. No, what I wanted your advice on was how to get at them when they have sequestered themselves in a place I cannot go.”

“I doubt any kingpin with a lick of sense in their head would shelter a rogue from another. Not without a decent incentive.”

“They have not gone to hide beneath another kingpin’s skirts. They have gone to the Upper City.”

He blinked. He hadn’t expected that. He took a long, slow sip of wine as he tried to gather his thoughts. Certainly nefarious things went on in the Upper City – very nearly as much as in the Lower City, just a little better disguised and much better cleaned up after. For someone like the Sculptor, though...the Upper City was out of their reach. Clever little assassin, to go and hide there.

“You’re certain they haven’t simply fled the city altogether?” he asked.

“Positive.” She swirled the wine in her glass and he wished she’d raise her veil and take a sip. “So, Master...ah, Amrik. Can you advise me in this little matter?”

“My services do not come cheap,” he couldn’t help but say, smirk dancing about his lips.

“You know who I am – you think I’d swindle you out of honest pay for honest work?”

Oh, he really did like her.

“Now, that’s not entirely true,” he replied. “You’ll pay me, that I do know, I would never doubt your integrity for a moment. But who you are? That remains somewhat of a mystery.”

“I am the Sculptor of Eastway.”

“Odd name for a parent to give a daughter.”

“My parents were not exactly usual.”

“I can help you collect your rogue from the Upper City,” he said, leaning towards her. “If you’ll pay my price upfront.”

“Half now, half on completion. The usual way.”

“As you wish.” He gazed at the glittering veil, at the patterns in the lace. “My price is this – your name...and your face.”

Even without seeing her eyes he could tell she was staring at him. It was a stupid thing to say, after all, given how awkward it was going to be to ferret a rogue assassin out of the Upper City. But he had to know. The moment stretched on until, finally, she nodded.

“A fair price.” He held his breath. “My name is Adanessa Vidrid.”

“Adanessa,” he shaped the word, fitted it to the figure of her upon the sofa. Adanessa. “How lovely.”

“Bring me my rogue, Amrik,” she said and he thought he heard a smile in her tone. “And then you may satisfy your curiosity.”

“It will be done with all speed.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To collecting what is owed.”

She clinked her glass against his.

“I look forward to our next meeting.”

“As do I.”

---

He was oddly nervous as he knocked on the door of the Sculptor’s – no, of Adanessa’s house. Which was unusual, as Amrik did not consider himself a nervous man as a rule. Frayed nerves got you nowhere in Baldur’s Gate, not unless the place you wanted to be was bleeding out in a back alley.

He ran a hand over his goatee, smoothing it down even though he knew it looked perfect. He’d made certain he was as well-groomed as he ever had been this evening. After all, if Adanessa was going to reveal her face he could at the very least make an effort with his. He clasped his hands behind his back to give them something to do and shifted his weight from foot to foot, straightening up as the door opened.

“Master Vanthampur, please, come in,” Erica said brightly. He still had not worked out how she knew who it was when she answered the door for her mistress. He wondered if it was magic.

She led him to the drawing room again, where it was comfortably warm against the spring chill, and where Adanessa was already seated, waiting. She wore emerald tonight, a fine colour on her, and a wide golden band decorated each wrist. A matching green scarf covered her head, with a veil like woven filigree hanging to her collarbone and sparkling in the firelight.

“Thank you, Erica,” she said softly. There was wine already set out upon the table, and a small spread of finer food than he’d ever have expected to find in Eastway. The door clicked as Erica left and he hesitated for only a moment before joining Adanessa on the couch. She inclined her head towards him.

“Fine work, Amrik,” she said. “You have my thanks.”

“It was my pleasure, I assure you,” he took the wine she offered him and watched her over the rim of the glass as he took a mouthful. “And like any good businessman, I have come to collect the rest of my fee.”

“You’re certain that’s still what you want?” She was watching him intently, he could tell, sitting there with her hands folded in her lap, as still as one of her sculptures. Which, he had noticed, were different today – two new cowering stone men either side of the fireplace.

“I would be happy to pay in a more usual way,” she continued. Was there a hint of nervousness in her voice, or was he imagining it?

“I would not go back on an agreement,” he said.

“You think I am some great beauty under here,” she said, trailing her fingertips down the side of her veil. “A hidden rose for you to admire. I wonder – will you be disappointed when I am not?”

“I find you fascinating even without seeing your face.”

“Because I am a mystery. Things unknown are always more enticing.”

“Are you going to renege on our deal, Adanessa?” he still liked the way her name sat in his mouth. Her fingers curled about the edge of the veil.

“I did not become the kingpin of Eastway by breaking my word,” she said, and lifted both veil and scarf from her head.

The first thing that struck him was her eyes. Pure liquid gold, they held him so spellbound he almost could not take in the rest of her. Her features were fine – sculptural he might even say – her lips full and painted dull gold. Or at least, he thought they must be painted.

“My word,” he breathed, forgetting about the wine, about where he was and who he was and what he was doing. He could not tear his eyes from her, from the way the firelight played across her skin, the way it made her eyes glitter. “A hidden rose indeed.”

He saw at last her smile, a curving of lips as graceful as it was wry.

“Look a little closer,” she said. In that moment of speech he caught the flash of fangs, teeth too sharp to be human. He blinked and saw her hair, thick braids of dark green, begin to move. No, not braids, he realised as they raised up in a living halo about her head, tongues flickering and beady golden eyes gleaming. Not braids, but snakes.

Amrik was not a well-travelled man. He lived in and worked in and rarely left Baldur’s Gate. Still, he considered himself as worldly a man as any who made their home here could, and he was not ignorant of the wide variety of creatures that dwelled throughout Faerûn. All that is to say – he knew what a medusa was.

He had just never expected to see one up close.

“Good gods!”

“Do you still find me fascinating?” Adanessa asked. “Am I the beauty you imagined?”

“No,” he said and he put his glass on the table. His hand was shaking. “My imagination is fairly limited. It could never have conjured something so...captivating.”

She frowned, snakes dipping to writhe about her shoulders as her head tipped to one side in confusion.

“Captivating?”

“Incredibly so,” he shifted forwards and dared to put a hand on her knee. “And unless you’re intending to turn me into one of your sculptures, we have a whole evening for you to tell me just how a medusa came to call Baldur’s Gate home.”

---

“—and we will...Amrik! Pay attention, boy!”

Amrik blinked back to himself to find his mother glaring at him from the head of the table. He straightened under her furious gaze, offering an obsequious smile.

“Yes, mother. My apologies.”

Across the table from him, Thurstwell hid a smirk behind a handkerchief, pretending to cough. The scrawny little slime took any opportunity to savour Amrik’s missteps, still holding out a vain hope that Thalamra would change her mind about which of her sons would make the better successor. As if she’d ever consider Thurstwell a viable option for anything.

“As I was saying,” Thalamra said firmly, “We will soon have the temple complex ready, and Mortlock, you will take charge of operations from there.”

“In the sewer?” Mortlock complained, his great brows drawing down.

Amrik’s thoughts drifted again as his idiot younger sibling tried to argue with their indomitable mother. Golden eyes hovered in his mind, framed by emerald snakes. They had talked late into the evening, so late she had even offered to let him stay the night – an offer he’d had to turn down, for the sake of this tedious meeting. Usually he didn’t care to listen to someone talk for that long, least of all about themselves, but Adanessa...

Her voice was like a spell he did not want to break. She was eloquent, and clever, and witty and the rich velvet of her tones in the low firelight, deepened with wine, sent a thrill through him. Even just thinking about it made his heart start to race again. She’d ended up here by accident, hidden in the hold of a ship from a foreign land she’d never seen or known the name of. She called Baldur’s Gate home, had grown up here, hidden in the narrow streets of his own city, and clawed her way to power, one stony inch at a time. He thought--

“Amrik.”

Oh, he knew that tone. He suppressed a wince. Thalamra’s face was like thunder as she glowered at him like judgement day.

“Yes, mother?”

“Please, do share whatever it is that has you so inattentive today. It’s not as if we’re on a deadline or anything.”

Thurstwell snickered openly this time and Thalamra shot him a nasty glare. Amrik shrugged.

“A little business issue, mother. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“‘Business’,” Thurstwell muttered with a wheezing little laugh. Amrik narrowed his eyes. Old Thursty had a nasty habit of spying on his brothers, and thought that neither of them ever noticed. Which, given his infernal pets propensity for invisibility, they usually didn’t. But unlike Mortlock, Amrik wasn’t stupid enough to not know it was happening, even if he didn’t know exactly when.

“Yes, Thurstwell, you know – work? Such as a man might have to do to make his way most usefully in the world? You do remember the world exists, don’t you? The one outside of your cave of mouldy old books, I mean.”

Thurstwell opened his mouth to retort but Thalamra slapped a palm on the table, startling a yelp out of Mortlock. Her steely eyes bore into both of them, the Vanthampur matriarch clearly having had enough of her son’s petty squabbling.

“Enough. Clean up your business Amrik – and quickly. The time is coming that we won’t be able to afford distractions.”

“Of course, mother,” he said, and stood. “I shall ensure there are no loose ends to get in the way of our grander designs.”

“See that there aren’t,” she said. “I’m relying on you, Amrik.”

He nodded, gave her a polite bow, and left, aware of Thurstwell’s beady little eyes following him. If he ever caught one of his brothers nasty imps following him to Eastway he’d have to see if he couldn’t bring back a fine statue in its place.

---

He had no reason to be there. He didn’t need any assassins, had no business to conduct in Eastway that might need prior approval, no payment to collect – and she certainly hadn’t sent for him either. Amrik slowed as he approached the narrow house, wondering for the dozenth time what he was doing. So what if she was beautiful? So what if the memory of her voice sent a shiver down his spine? So what if that night talking to her face-to-face had been the only thing he could think about for the last two tendays?

There were plenty of beautiful women in Baldur’s Gate if one were so inclined to find them. Plenty who weren’t deadly medusa, either, capable of turning a man to stone with a thought. Gods knew he’d been with enough of them over the years.

And yet...and yet. Here he was. In front of her door for no good godsdamned reason, trying to convince himself to knock already or just leave. He hesitated, hand hovering over the knocker for a long moment.

“You are a grown man, Amrik, this is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, and knocked before he could talk himself out of it. There was a long pause before he heard footsteps approaching.

“Oh! Master Vanthampur!” It had to be magic, there was no other way she could have known it was him. “Miss Vidrid didn’t tell me she was expecting you.”

“Ah, this is somewhat of an...unplanned visit,” he said. Erica smiled.

“Well, she’s in a meeting right now but I suppose it would be alright to come in and wait, if you wanted.”

“I would hate to interrupt her work,” he said, glad that Erica couldn’t see his face for it certainly had some damn fool look on it. “I’ll just come back--”

There was a shout from upstairs and both of them started. Another shout, then a thud, and Amrik wasn’t thinking he was pushing past Erica and taking the stairs two at a time, almost turning his ankle at the top as he pulled his dagger free and found the door to Adanessa’s office and shoved it open--

--and saw Adanessa with her veil drawn back, eyes blazing with golden fire as she stared down the man with his arm cocked back to throw a knife. A horrified scream cut to dead silence as Amrik watched his skin darken to grey, the petrification freezing him in an eternal moment of terror. He stood in the doorway, half-frozen himself, not certain what to do.

“Amrik!” Adanessa turned to him, eyes still blazing, and he felt all his limbs lock up and a thrill of fatalistic terror raced through him – so this is it, this is how I die. Then she whirled away to face her desk, throwing an arm up over her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

His body relaxed and he sagged against the doorframe. He drew a deep, ragged breath and was fumbling for an explanation when he saw the blood running down her arm.

“You’re hurt,” his voice shook more than he liked and he flexed his fingers around the hilt of his dagger to get a grip on himself. He slid the blade back into its sheath and went to her side. She kept her head turned away from him, eyes closed. There was a cut on her forearm, just below her elbow. He took her wrist and gently lifted it, drew her arm towards him.

“I’m fine--”

“Let me see,” he said firmly, wishing she’d look at him. It wasn’t a deep cut, just a graze. Amrik glanced past her and there it was; a throwing dagger on the other side of the desk, fetched up against the wall. The now-statue had evidently gotten the first blow in before Adanessa had been able to petrify him.

“Miss, what happened!” Erica appeared in the doorway, sightless eyes wide and worried. “Is everything alright? Master Vanthampur--?”

“Lady Vidrid is hurt,” Amrik cut her off. “Would you kindly fetch something to patch her up with?”

Erica bobbed a clumsy curtsey and almost tripped over her own feet as she dashed away, thudding quickly down the stairs. He turned back to Adanessa, who had drawn her veil back over her face. A delicate thing of soft grey lace today, like a woven stormcloud. She had not pulled her arm from his grasp.

“Lady Vidrid,” she repeated with a soft laugh. “I like that.”

“What happened?” he asked, a little rougher than he’d intended. Adanessa sighed.

“There is always someone who thinks he knows better than you. A rival sent that one,” she motioned at the statue that had so recently been a man, “Presumably to take me out so he could take my place. Eastway has been...turbulent, of late.”

Erica returned then, bearing a tray with a bowl of steaming water and a pile of folded cloths and towels. She went to the desk and set it down, passing only feet from the statue. Amrik shivered a little. Did she know it was there? Did the serving girl know what manner of mistress she really served?

“Erica, would you run and let Master Hundath know I shall have a new piece for him tonight?” Adanessa said.

“Right now, Miss Vidrid? Are you sure--?”

“Right now, Erica.” Her tone was firm, and Erica ducked her head in a quick bow, hands twisting together.

“Of course. Anything else, Miss Vidrid?”

“That will be all, thank you.”

Erica hurried away again, leaving them alone. And now Adanessa did pull herself free, and reached for the tray at the same time he did.

“I can do this myself,” she snapped, slapping his hand away. He caught it in both of his and squeezed a little.

“Adanessa, let me. Please?”

For a moment he thought she’d refuse, then nodded curtly. He let her go and picked up the chair the would-be assassin had knocked over. Adanessa sat and he began cleaning the wound, hoping that the knife hadn’t been coated with anything, wondering if such mundane things as poison would even affect her if it had. She hissed a little at the touch of the hot cloth.

“Why are you here, Amrik?”

The white cloth went red. It was a shallow cut, but it wanted to keep bleeding.

“I...wanted to see you,” he said. He rinsed the cloth and drew it over her arm again, unable to make out her face through the veil but feeling her watching him.

“Who do you need to hire? Most of my agents are occupied at the moment but I’m certain I could find someone for y--”

“No, I wanted to see you.” Finally the cut seemed staunched and he began wrapping it, winding the bandage tightly about her arm. She appeared so soft but as his fingers moved over her skin he could feel iron muscle beneath. A medusa trait? Or a Baldurian one?

“Why?”

“Adanessa,” he finished tying off the bandage and stood back. “Don’t play foolish. We both know you’re not.”

“You already saw my face. Your payment was made.”

“Maybe I want to see it again.”

“Did you not see what I just did?” Her tone went cold. She gestured at the statue, the man poised with a knife now eternally un-thrown. “That is what looking at my face results in.”

“It didn’t the other night.”

“I...that was…”

“If you wanted to kill me, you could have done it by now. I expect I would make an excellent statue.”

“You very nearly did!” Adanessa sprang to her feet. “Do you understand what I am? The curse that I carry? I can control it, for now, but it is not a thing to be forever controlled! Each time you look at me is another chance you turn to stone – forever!”

“Then it’s a chance I shall have to take,” he said. And he reached up and lifted her veil away, tossing it to her desk and revealing again the snake hair, the golden eyes, the marble perfection of her features. Shock, anger, fear, all flashed across her face in quick succession, her eyes blazing. Yet he did not petrify beneath her gaze. “Make me a statue, if you want. I’ll surely sell well with a face full of awe instead of terror.”

“Amrik…” she did not push him away as he stepped towards her, took her face in his hands. Her voice softened. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then don’t,” he murmured, and kissed her. She gasped against his lips, stiffened for a moment and then melted against him. Her arms wrapped around him, palms pressing against his back, fingers clutching at his cloak. He felt the whisper of scales against the side of his face, the flick of a dozen forked tongues, a symphony of hissing around his head. Her lips parted beneath his own and his tongue touched fangs briefly before she broke away.

“If you die, will I have the whole Vanthampur family after my head?” she whispered. He chuckled and let his hands fall to her waist, pulling her flush against him.

“I expect my brothers would send you a thank-you letter. Well, the one that knows how to write, anyway.”

“You really aren’t afraid of me, are you?” she shook her head, a disbelieving smile on her face. The snakes retreated to hover about her shoulders. “You’re either a very brave man, Amrik Vanthampur, or a very foolish one.”

“Call me a curious one. I know your name and I have seen your face,” he kissed her again, sweet and slow, then pulled away, a wicked smile tugging at his lips. “Now I’d like to see the rest of you.”

“My services do not come cheap,” there was a smirk in her voice, a tease in the scrape of her nails against the back of his neck

“You know who I am,” he slid a hand up her side, “You think I’d cheat you out of honest pay for honest work?”

“Honest work?”

“Well,” he amended, pressing his mouth to her jaw, snakes slithering out of his way as he followed the line of her neck. “Enthusiastic work, at least.”

“If we’re to discuss business, we ought to move to my office.”

He could feel her pulse beneath his lips, racing.

“Wonderful idea,” he said. “Next door down the hall?”

“A fine guess, I-- oh!”

Amrik scooped her up, hitching her legs around his waist. She clung to him, arms about his neck, laughing as he carried her from the room.

He kissed her all the way to the bed.