Sins for Sale : Ishethra and Mannes

I finally finished Act II of Sins for Sale and am working on tidying up the outline for the second half before writing. Wanted to share a scene with Ishethra in her Everdark mansion with Mannes, her domovyi (a demonic spider butler) in toe as she prepares to face her nemesis, Josnel Soneph. Thanks to Danielle Arcilla for suggestion Mannes be a spider with those classy shoes!

The scene, narrated by Ishethra …

My palace in Navia has a thousand rooms but suffocates me because Josnel wants to see me, in person. Will Rai survive our encounter?

The corridor from my private chamber runs the length of the east wing, and I walk it with Mannes at my heel. For millennia he’s walked half a pace behind me. I trail my fingers along the wall that’s lacquered with blood from dragons harvested from Kellana, a benediction for a contest I won as I step into a contest I may lose a piece of.

At a spacious closet skinned with tyrant flesh, my finest attire spreads out; we stop. “Something to remember Alexandria by,” I tell Mannes. “But modern.”

“If you insist.” Mannes floats, choosing to dress me in a black lab coat adorned with gold flames, topping a wine-red sheath. He molds my hair into a crown before braiding the rest with the colors of freedom, gently setting the expanse of silk to rest at my feet.

All because Josnel noticed me when we last dared stand in proximity, some fourteen hundred years ago. When he stood across the chamber to avoid sickening me, declaring my hair worn in such a manner was the only design in the room capable of unsettling him.

I’ve never forgotten the room’s laughter, nor his praise. Tonight I require him unsettled, thus snake earrings befitting Tayemnycha, my true name meaning mysterious snake in the Navian tongue. Garnet would’ve been the diplomatic choice, but snake is the choice of a demon lord who brings pain.

“Yes,” Mannes snivels. “You are a picture of the modern demoness.”

If only I could make all females pictures of the modern demoness. “Thank you.” Out the closet, we continue on, but I pause at Shekhar’s portrait. Kamen’s hangs next to it.

Mannes says nothing. He’s walked me past the first picture for two decades, the second mere weeks, holding his tongue because that is the service I require from him as I put on a brave face. All the power in the universe, all the allure, yet I can’t keep a partner. And I’ve begun to realize the problem might be me.