The Cursed Deal ✓

Chapter 3

Nestled within the woods to the southeast of Isflean and hidden away from prying eyes and the docks to the north, Rising Eternity's base, an old palace made of dark stone, resided. The history of the palace of square towers and long hallways with many hidden rooms were not known to Faine. She came to this base one hundred years ago and had learned nothing about it. Nothing had changed since then.

On the lower levels were the main rooms of the palace including Zebulon's study, the kitchen, the dining area, as well as the great room where Rising Eternity's members were allowed to do anything other than discuss their current missions. As criminals, life wasn't exactly smooth and the low couches, a roaring fireplace, and cushioned chairs were often the only way anyone, including Faine, could rid themselves of a headache.

Passing the arched windows, carrying a flaming torch in her hand, Faine squinted into the dark. The moonlight was fickle; it provided nothing to what she needed to find her way into Zebulon's study-doubling as his residence. His kind didn't demand much other than wooden beams to sit on and in the study, up in the ceiling's darkness, Zebulon got what he needed.

Faine knocked on the heavy wooden door, and when she didn't receive a response, used the knocker in the shape of an imp's head to demand entry. The long and empty stretch of stone hallway flickered to life around her from the flame torch in her grip and the dark windows looking out to the courtyard beyond held nothing but her own reflection.

Faine frowned at the tear in the back of her favorite frock coat. She'd have to repair that later.

A muffled thump came from the other side of the door and she straightened, ignoring the tear in her clothes, and stood to attention when Zebulon, crime boss of Rising Eternity, opened the door and frowned past his golden beak at the torch. His human eyes, dark and lifeless, didn't illuminate excitement at the sight of her, but the feathered wings against his back tightened against his spine when he stepped aside to allow her through.

The musty stench of Zebulon's office hit her like a slap to the face when she stepped in, placed the torch in the empty sconce, and squinted to find one of the velvet chairs next to a tall, ceiling-high bookcase. There wasn't a break in spines or leather bindings or titles or designs. The golden edgings of the books stared back at her as she took a seat in front of them and kicked up her legs onto the cushion.

"You come in here and behave like this is your personal residence," Zebulon grumbled, his voice hissing like the gadigator's had mere hours ago. "Behave like you're visiting the high elf family and not the seennouk that swore you to one hundred years of service."

Rubbing a hand along her forehead, Faine was hardly listening. She had a small argument with Kaspar about who would deliver the report, and that argument ended in her loss, as it always did. By now, Kaspar was asleep and huddled underneath the sheets. There was hardly a chance he planned on waiting for her to return, Faine realized.

Zebulon's wings dragged along the floor and carried him all the way to his desk on the opposite side of the cluttered and dimly lit room. Beyond the tall back chair was an entire wall of window panes filled with stars and the moon glowing in the distance. Almost full, but not quite. The chair squeaked when Zebulon took a seat, folding his clawed hands together on top of the wooden surface. The paperwork was disorderly there, too, and it was a miracle he hadn't ripped into it with those sharp claws on both his hands and feet.

"If you wanted anything more than what I've given you, I should have received that information ninety-nine years ago. Perhaps in a wax-sealed letter so it was deemed formal," Faine muttered.

Zebulon snorted for lack of amusement. He dipped the sharp end of the feather in black ink and hovered it over a piece of parchment. Impatient as ever. "Let's get this over with. What did you make of your mission today?"