Snippet #1485783

The Lord of the Manor was sitting with his head tilted to one side in the ballroom, waiting patiently for his guests to leave the cellar. He wasn’t actually bored, rather feeling melancholic for no apparent reason. Because he sat too long lost in his thoughts Byron had a blank gaze. The red burgundy that he stirred around in the glass looked like a tiny pool of blood and its ripples reminded Byron of his time spent in the colonies when a man’s life valued less than a dog’s. He remembered how one of the natives, after seeing his shack burned down and his family slaughtered by the group of soldiers Byron was part of, ran past the other Englishmen and with his bare hands tried to break Byron’s neck in a feeble attempt to get his revenge. It wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it. Without taking part in the slaughter he set the shack on fire and even made jokes on the side regarding the native’s “wealth”. Black hands stretched out to reach him, but the man wasn’t fast enough. With a swift move Byron pulled out his dagger and turning to the left he caught the man’s arms under his elbow with his free arm. He moved the blade from one side to another slitting the man’s throat.
“You’ve messed up my coat, you worm.” Byron let the body fall besides him in the mud. It was his first kill in a series of others and each time he felt the power of deciding a man’s future –or better to say, the end of it - and the pleasure that came with it invading his body and mind.
The general chatter and the sound of steps on the marble floor woke him from his reverie. He saw the guests passing by in the hall through one of the doors without being seen himself.
“Sleep tight my doves, the time draws near…” He emptied his glass and sat it on the low table. He passed by his wife’s bedroom on his way to his room and heard her sobs from behind the door. Byron smirked.

His room had a high ceiling and had its woodwork marbled in shades of pale gray and red. The most astonishing piece from the gothic style furniture was the bed for which the expression “king sized” was probably invented. He emptied his pockets and made a short inventory: the “love token” from Miss Kingsley’s Fine Establishment for Fine Gentlemen and the four keys. His deck of cards was still in the cellar after Maximilian took it from him along with one of his walking sticks which he left behind. He left Genevieve’s key on the table still holding onto the spare and put the other two in the left pocket. He put the spare in the right one and with a quick glance in the mirror he arranged his already perfectly tightened hair.
Byron decided to pay Clarice a visit. Going for her wasn’t as exciting as hunting down the Ice Queen, but for that night an easy prey was more tempting. On the other hand, scaring off Alayna from the first try would have been a mistake and Byron was no amateur. He knew that would take time and effort and he was determined to invest both. What he didn’t expected however was how much he actually would have to put up with before reaching his goal.

The lord went up the stairs and after making sure no else was around he stopped in front of the woman’s room. With a short knock on the door he said loud enough to be heard from the other side, yet as low as he could not to disturb the other guests:
“Miss Phaedra, open the door. There is something I need to talk to you about.”