From KRYMSIN NOCTURNES by Joseph Armstead
“So what do you want to ask of me?” she said after a long and quiet moment.
It was Ashton Brazil who ventured to break the stillness. “Do you know anything about a woman named Calianne? Or a human named Sherilynn Amanda Greyville? Or a professor named Rajan Seddig Al’Meffistah?”
“Or who would dare to be using enslaved revenants, Hounds, to do their bidding?” Quinn added.
Abruptly all of them, even Quinn, jumped as Babael erupted into raucous, mean-spirited laughter. It was a sound not unlike that of a hyena’s coughing titter mixed with the sound of rough steel spikes running across slate. As quickly as it had begun, the laughter faded, descending again into the Kymeric’s usual deep, rapid wheezing.
Madame Wintyrr, too, was chortling in very unladylike, uncharitable fashion. Her sunken eye sockets were stretched wide and she pointed at the tall Olympian with a taloned finger as she spoke. The airborne eyes circled her in a dizzying, almost playful display of gravity-defying levitation.
“Are you quite serious? Hounds? Calianne, Sherilynn Greyville, Rajan Al’Meffistah? Such exotic names! You ask me? Why, you dear, dear fools, you do say the funniest things! For goodness sakes, Quinn, why don’t you go ask your so-called sister—she’d know!”
That was when the audience ended.
Sam Carstairs allowed his hand to slowly wander towards the stock of his holstered Armpistol, his eyes narrowed as he sized up the odds. “Is that it?” he demanded of Quinn. “Is that all? We came here for this?”
“Leave it be,” Quinn advised solemnly. “We have what we need.”
“Do we now? Well, I don’t know about you, but I have some more goddamn questions!” the private detective said.
“If you force me to carry you out of here, cowboy, you won’t be breathing,” Quinn said with grim certitude.
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