Interruption Three

Interruption Three

“What do you mean you bit a man?” Cyril demanded as he dragged the imp over to a dark corner of the inn. “You were supposed to keep a low profile!”

“I couldn’t help it,” the imp murmured, forgetting to add any ‘my lord’ or ‘my lieges.’ It pouted as it clutched its tail, nursing a black bruise. “Their argument was so fun to listen to!”

Cyril pinched the bridge of his nose. The worst part about working with imps was that they absolutely adored drama. It made them easy to recruit—if an evil mage were ever looking for new minions, all they had to do was stage a loud, impassioned argument and they’d draw a whole hoard from which to choose—but also meant they were easily distracted. “Did you at least find out where we are?”

“Oh, yes, of course. We’re in the Kingdom of Woe in the Desolated Lands.”

The village they’d stopped in today looked exactly as happy and cheerful as the one yesterday, if a slightly different flavor. The people were different, implying it wasn’t just some illusory trap to tempt Cyril into wasting his time. Illusions were the lowest form of magic and not prone to originality, usually simply copying and pasting the same sorts of buildings and people over and over again.

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“Two hundred percent positive,” the imp replied, licking its lips with a long, wet tongue. “He tasted like royalty.”

Cyril dropped the imp and stroked his chin in thought. “Royalty, hmm? Did you catch his name?”

“Ricky or something like that.”

Since Cyril had always thought the Desolated Lands were, well, desolated, he’d never paid attention to the names of their royalty, but he remembered his wife mentioning Prince Frederick of Woe during the carriage ride. “Was it the groom?”

“I don’t know. He was arguing with another man. It sounded like they’d broken up recently.”

“That makes sense. If he’s going to get married, he’d have to break it off with any lovers before the wedding, at least for a little while.”

Several evil mages took on paramours outside of their marriage. Not Cyril though. Aside from being genuinely in love with his wife, he would quite like to keep his balls in pristine condition. Her nicknames might range everywhere from ‘cookie’ to ‘darling,’ but before they’d married, she had apprenticed under a hag titled ‘The Devourer of Men’ whose reputation was quite literal. His wife had given up the life of evil for him—otherwise they would never get to see each other—and he valued her sacrifice, but he would never forget her origins.

“We can’t have the wedding canceled.” His wife would never forgive him. Besides, being an evil mage required a sense of showmanship. If anyone was going to ruin the wedding, it would be him, and he’d do it at the most crucial moment—right before the couple said their vows and sealed their union with a kiss. “Take this and give it to the man you bit,” he ordered, handing the imp a vial of antivenom. Any evil mage who worked with imps knew to keep half-a-dozen on hand.

The imp glowered at it. “Do I have to?”

Damned brat was getting less obedient by the moment. Cyril might have to call in a higher-level minion. “You’re the one who bit him without my permission; now you have to take responsibility for it.”

The imp snatched the bottle from him and stuffed it into its bottomless pockets. Before it popped out of existence, it narrowed its eyes and asked, “What if I can’t find him in time?”

“See that you do,” Cyril replied sternly. “But don’t get caught again.”

“Sweetie? Who are you talking to?” his wife called from the doorway.

The imp disappeared and Cyril hastily lowered his hood, hurrying back to his wife to sweep her into his arms and kiss her in a way that would hopefully make her forget her question. “All done, my dear? Are you ready to continue?”

Her eyes darkened with desire, and she wrapped her hands in his collar. “Oh, I’m ready to continue,” she said, her voice low and husky. She dragged him to the carriage, grinning as they prepared for a bumpy ride.