Seraphim
Lucifer de Morte tightened his jaw and clamped his eyelids shut. The sheep tallow used to oil his saddle oozed between his leather-gloved fingers.
"Just last night," Mastema's emerald-liveried messenger said in a tone too soft and fearful to blossom from a whisper. "I rode all night, my lord. I beg thee forgiveness."
At a dismissing flick of Lucifer's fingers, the messenger bowed and backed from the private chamber positioned deep in the center of the fortified lair. Lucifer remained stiff, his hand fixed in a scrubbing position on the cantle of his saddle.
To his right, a blazing fire spat angry sparks across the tiled Istrian-marble floor. The hearth — forged of iron — resembled a demon's mouth, complete with curved fangs, and above the gaping jaws, carved recesses for eyes where the flames danced high, animating the macabre face in wicked design. Overhead, suspended from the pine-beamed ceiling, a stuffed eagle, preserved and mounted with its eight-foot wingspan regally spread, silently mocked Lucifer with its glistening ruby eyes.
The black knight, the messenger had said. Again.
In a rage of motion, Lucifer ... read full excerpt from: Seraphim ebook
