Splat. Splat. Splat. The stench of maggoty haggis wafted anew through the dungeon as the last of the partygoers defiled the banquet table, rotten fish jostled from their silver platters sliding slimily to the stone floor. Blue-black candlelight dappled the incorporeal shapes bent over the table, abruptly stilled by an earsplitting keen that threatened to outlast the party itself and wake every inhabitant of the castle.
Nick turned the Wailing Widow around in his arms and silenced her with a kiss. “Madam,” he said presently, “I hope the trip from Kent proved worthwhile. And your sobriquet is very well-earned indeed.”
Nick turned the Wailing Widow around in his arms and silenced her with a kiss. “Madam,” he said presently, “I hope the trip from Kent proved worthwhile. And your sobriquet is very well-earned indeed.”