Forty two
Meanwhile, the Priest and the King were having a one-on-one combat involving daggers and hands.
Paul Herrman had forced some willpower into his veins an slipped out the blades from his waistcoat, surging towards the djinn afterwards.
Abraham noticed something though, this man wasn't an amateur in demon slaying. But he wasn't demon, was he?
With both blades slicing around in a manner only experts controlled, the King was much better at avoiding them . A tilt to either side when it was necessary, or slicing right below an approaching stab.
But one thing the Priest knew was…none of his numerous attacks had sliced his opponent.
Abraham let the effortless defense go on for just a moment. When he finally got bored of it, he placed a fiery grip around the man's neck, lifting him up from his feet.
Paul groaned as the larva lined palms of the djinn tightened around his neck. His struggles were too vain compared to the impossibly powerful hands burning his skin.
For longer than necessary, the djinn of fire relished the familiar feeling of dominance. As he dragged his eyes over the helpless mortal who'd claimed to be able to kill him, he decided a more bloody death would serve him right.
Consequently, he growled and flung him away unto the floor, fangs flashing in anger. Afterwards, he dashed forward.
But…someone came in his path and placed a halting hand on his chest.
"Abraham. Abraham," he recognized the quiet tone of plea in Jeremy's voice. "Don't do this, calm down."
The King gazed at his eldest brother with those fiery-glowing eyes and saw not even the slightest sign of fear in them.
And for no other reason, he listened and turned away. It wasn't the same for the others with him though.
Martin seemed like his heart was in his mouth. Sam had ashened like he'd seen a ghost.
The new lady, possibly Razia's sister, was taking slow steps backwards.
And Razia…
She studied the flames devouring the entire chamber…and finally rested her hazel eyes on him, seemingly swallowing this new form she'd never seen before.
His entire torso, arms and face were lined with a maze of larva lines; and the rest of his skin was just batches of smouldering flesh.
But as always, it was impossible to tell how she felt with that stern set of eyes.
Abraham turned on one heel and began his advent from their company. "Lock him up," he concluded and stepped over the threshold.
Jeremy Tonnel cast one uncertain glare at Razia, then on the Priest who had curled himself into a shivering ball. "Guards!"
***
Isaac Ramiro could comfortably be placed under the quiet and dangerous ones, enough vices to make up for his lacking height.
When he was twelve, he'd earned the title of _wanted; dead or alive_ on the juvenile records. He'd conned forty two men across twenty two countries by the time he was seventeen.
But somehow, he never got to complete a night in any prison he'd been hauled into; which were just a handful, by the way.
Now at fifty…well, let's just say every King wanted his head under a guillotine.
But, that never stopped him.
He presently ran a tavern at the South of Valish, famous for its perfection in dirty deeds and Italian Scotch. It was no abode for someone who thought twice.
Now seated behind his small old desk, Isaac gulped down the last of the famous Scotch just before topping it for the fourth time.
With his protruding stomach touching the edge of the table, he was slumped right in the center of lads who seemed to be his henchmen.
Matters were reported regularly on operations going on in the heart of the tavern. But of course, he was a disgrace of a boss.
"Be gone!" He'd say, "Why ever should it bother me if the milk is finished? I'm not a cow, am I?"
Or maybe when he had the case of a bounty hunter who'd wanted his pork grilled.
Isaac had looked down at the plate of grilled mutton he had been eating and said. "He can have this one," he shoved the plate of half eaten food forward. "I haven't had much o' a bite from it, have I? 'Sides…who could tell the difference between pork and mutton these days?"
That hadn't stopped the flow of reports to his table though.
But tonight!
Tonight's report was like none he'd ever heard.
"A lad wants to see me?" Isaac frowned his jabbered face, a smooth pirate coin flipping in his hand. "Well mate. Tell em your sire's gone on a trip."
And he leaned back lazily in his misery.
The butler who'd brought the message bowed sheepishly…and fearfully, casting uncertain glances at the built henchmen around. With a bit of a stutter, he responded. "But, I already said you were in, boss."
The look he received was soul snatching, piercing and enough to make one know this was his _end._
The older man hadn't stopped glaring even while he stood abruptly with a violent bump against his table. "Fire him," he spoke to no one in particular before giving the butler the last of his attention.
Isaac marched across the room to the door, muttering curses about how bad having an English butler was…polite and truthful set of bastards!
Whilst he made it through poorly lit hallways, smoke from smouldering cheroot butts filled his nostrils, and of course, getting bumped against by drunk customers prancing about.
He couldn't help but wonder though why somebody…why anybody would care to visit him after several years.
Or more than several.
Isaac Ramiro finally made it to the heart of his tavern preoccupied with every kind of sin.
Like, a sheriff just stabbed his colleague over a jar of Italian Scotch.
But, back to the matter at hand.
He got gestured to the counter where a man was seated with his back turned to him.
But good God…Isaac could have sworn that lad's attire could afford his entire tavern. Now, there was a better question.
Why would a wealthy, young man be looking for him?
Maybe he could con himself a few hundred pieces of silver, but still!
"Start talking and make it quick," he rattled as he leaned upon the counter. "Make em worth it. Firstly, who are…"
The man turned to look at him. And that was when Isaac's mouth dropped open.
Did a new shade of eyes get created or those emerald beady things were a fake?
Nah…this person couldn't be human.
Or maybe the brown curls of hair littered carelessly yet attractively upon his head?
Or his lips a dark red shade of flesh?
"Nice scotch," the visitor just smirked and raised his cup in indication.
Even the voice…
Isaac took the next few moments to gawk just after the question hit again. "Who are you?"