Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap.
“Bran, love, something bothering you?” Lazarus spoke without even sparing a glance to the ginger woman lounging in the chair on the other side of the fireplace from where he sat, tapping a fingernail against the wood of the table sat next to her. Gold eyes remained fixed on the fire crackling away in that fireplace, the flickering light reflected in wide black pupils. There was no reply, and he only smirked. He'd not really expected a reply. He knew what was bothering her, what it was she wanted, but it was amusing to let her stew in it for awhile.
Eventually, when he could feel her frustration getting to the point of nearly boiling over, he slid his gaze over to her, studying her. Mmhm, she was ready to stab something just to relieve the boredom. She wouldn't, though. No matter how bloodthirsty she got, she wouldn't even consider acting without his permission.
She really was the perfect fledgling.
“Zelus,” he said after the silence while he'd studied her had stretched out for awhile. “The shifter.” There was clear distaste in his faintly accented voice. “He refused my...offer. Go, child. Show him the consequences of that. But.” There was a pause, and Bran stopped, halfway to rising, her brilliant green eyes fixed on him expectantly, quite unable to completely mask her excitement. “Don't kill him. Not yet.” He waved his hand in a languid gesture of dismissal, and she rose gracefully and stalked out of the room.
Lazarus turned his attention to the only other presence in the room, a human woman kneeling at his feet, leaning against him, watching the fire silently. Not once during the exchange had she moved, or made a single sound. Nor would she, unless he required it of her.
As much as playing with his thralls normally amused him, he found he wasn't in the mood today. “Go, Bella,” he snapped suddenly, nudging her roughly with his foot. She made a faint little sound, but was moving immediately, stumbling to her feet and practically running from the room, running from the wrath of her Master, wrath strong enough to have even penetrated the haze that lay constantly across her thoughts.
Lazarus' thoughts were on the shaky treaty with the only group in the city that could really be a challenge to the rule he was aiming for – of all of the city, rather than just over those of his own kind. It was an unprecedented move in his world, and he enjoyed the challenge. The terms of the treaty, though, had him uneasy.
Worse, she had him feeling uneasy. The fey girl that was to become his. It had been a long time since anyone disturbed him the way she had, the one glimpse he'd had of her during negotiations. He wasn't sure what to make of it, and that... Well, that disturbed him the most.
If there was one thing about Lazarus that remained consistent over all of the years he'd existed, it was his ability to maintain control of everything around him. Anything that threatened that control, of himself, of those around him, of his world, made him very, very cranky.
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