‘One need not be a chamber to be haunted’ - Emily Dickinson
Madeye stares warily at the phone for over a minute after hanging up, his brow furrowed into a worried stack of nazca lines. That voice. That imperious FUCKING voice. They hadn’t exchanged words in ten years yet she had just phoned him with a favour to ask. Not only did she want something but she had that way of appearing irritated that he didn’t already know what it was. In fact he had the feeling that it would have been better if he’d just done it without being asked despite ten FUCKING years! O haughty queen of the Shadow Court this captain of FUCKING industry has PLENTY of time to spare to be your FUCKING errand boy. Sure, this global FUCKING empire will run itself while he galivants off.
Seething, Madeye leaps to his feet and strides over to a sumptuous mahogany drinks cabinet standing on one side of the room. Throwing open the doors with a bang he extracts a bottle of Method & Madness and a heavy cut-crystal whiskey glass. Pouring himself two fat fingers, his anger dissipates somewhat in the simple ritual. He walks over to the windows that dominate two sides of this extensive corner office. The twinkling incandescence of the lights of this human city draws his attention downwards, their inverted constellation dancing in the thickness of his whiskey glass. Very pretty but, like so many pretty things, so easily dominated. His mind is drawn back to the darkness that once ruled his life, that otherworld which had left it’s indelible mark on him.
Returning to his desk chair, he leans back into the thick burgundy of the pleated leather and lets the ghosts of his memories inundate him like a screaming clamour of gyllenstierna. The shimmering veils of the highs draw him briefly in with their passionate intensity before the lows plunge his head into a bucket of cold sick. He would have to be mad to re-open this Pandrora’s box. Yet. Yet here was Ravenblack’s city, something that could not be owned, not be bent to the will of one, though many had tried. Like the blackest of diamonds draws the gaze, the darkest of cities draws his mind.
Leaning forward, Madeye hefts the receiver of his vintage phone to his ear and hits redial, the fingers of his other hand drumming on the hardwood desktop. After a moments pause his voice fills the office
He replaces the handset without hesitation and clicks his fingers to re-activate the music.
As the first bars fill the room, he turns his focus to the terminal on the desk. He has work to do.