“Not everyone can be bought,” she said to Tobias, her father’s orange tabby. Tobias never responds to her as he had to her father but serves as an embodiment of conscience nonetheless. She wonders if her father left a piece of himself in the cat to guide her but he would never have risked reunion with her mother.
Frowning, she hopes her spell was correctly done. It has not likely been cast for several centuries but there hasn’t been one of her in several centuries either. She rises from the desk and parts the heavy velvet curtains, opening the windows to the night. Then she seats herself at one of two chairs in front of the fireplace. Between them is a small table often covered crystal tumblers of scotch or brandy. Tonight it holds two braids of silver, gold and rhodium ending in tassels of precious stones. She waits and watches the moon rise higher in the night.
Finally she sees a figure walking on a beam from the moon to her window. Layrel thought that she was prepared to see a Faeling corporeal but she was wrong. He steps into the room, shrouded in a cloak of malice so thick that Tobias hisses and with a bored wave of his hand the Faeling turns the cat to stone. He then turns his silver eyes on Layrel. His skin is wrought iron polished to a high sheen, his lips dark blood red, each tooth a blade and his hands end in long nails, the same color as his eyes. She has no doubt they are sharper than any earthly made edge.
“What do you want Wereloches?” demands the Faeling in a voice of rasping metal and torn flesh.
“Aid of the Fae,” says Layrel.
He whips out a hand slashing her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood and then runs his tongue over the bloodied nail licking it clean.
“Abomination,” he says eyes narrowing, “You tried to make another and failed.”
“Not entirely,” she says.
“I smell the bouquet of his sickness and suffering. You need Fae healing,” his eyes flickering to the braids of metal and jewels. A laugh rips from him causing the mirror above the mantelpiece to run liquid. “You were foolish to call on one of us so ill informed. You think your stories of us hold truth? You think that this is money, payment for what you ask?” he rasps gripping the braids undoing all that made them with one touch. Raw nuggets and unpolished stones fall from between his fingers. “You know nothing,” he hisses, letting the money fall onto the table and walks out.
Beginning line: “Not everyone can be bought,” she said.
Ending line: He let the money fall onto the table and walked out.