"Can this damn carriageman move any slower?" Israfel cursed the buggy he boarded for the short trip from the Lait-au-Lourde, the port of the Cold Sea to the Imperial House. "—this is why I favor taxi chicks. They can smell the urgency on a man." His need at the moment nearly did override his common sense to not smack the horse-master over the head.
And the man had a bald one at that. He so reminded Rafel of the Ghostrider, Menelaus—a Rank A Hellion—he had back when he was Earl of Emberfall. Rafel smelled the fresh sin on the wind and forced himself to sit tight. The doublet he had chosen for the occasion of his return was as vanta black, the gold buttons ringing in the char vest like pinned sunlight.
His women always did favor him in black.
