She walked Semyaza out to the sands, and smiled as he departed. Then she doubled back to complete Lord Felscythe’s request. She was last to leave, after all.
She took the long way home.
When she arrived she did not enter through the front door. She went instead around the house, out through the back, down the trail to the lonely structure that was her personal sanctum. All the way she barely heard her feet on the cobbles and the dirt paths, so near was she to floating.
She entered. She closed the door. She knelt, and opened her bag, and withdrew the candles, slamming them with uncanny precision into the silver holders still bejeweled with spent wax. She lit them all with a wave of her hand, summoning the flames higher with a conductor’s flair, and she smiled, and she set to work.
Hours later Westel was startled awake by something – someone – landing atop him as he slept. Slender hands seized his nightshirt and hauled him to sitting, even as his legs were pinned. He opened his mouth but before he could cry out her lips were on his, kissing him so fiercely he thought her teeth might cut him. She shoved him back hard onto the bed, and for all his blinking all he could see was her silhouette in the moonlight, her fel eyes blazing and the faint outline of a mad grin on her face.
“I’ve got the bitch,” she hissed gleefully.
Then Astoreth fell over, and passed out.