Chapter Five (Sophronia POV)
I overlooked the street from my high vantage point. The bustling city was still very much awake despite the cold night, and the sparkling lights of the neighbouring buildings left multi-coloured silhouettes on the carpet before me.
The elegant floor length windows that spanned the wall were perfectly clear, devoid of any kind of dust or fingerprints. I wondered how often they were polished.
I admired my reflection in the glass. The way the thigh-length, slinky black dress hugged my body and accented my curves. I hadn’t had a chance to freshen up properly in the last few days, but, to my relief, constantly being on the go hadn’t taken a toll on my appearance. My skin was still flawless, my eyes sharp. I had savagely pulled back my hair, ensuring there were no frisky flyaway hairs around my face.
I knew full well that no one on the other side of the glass could look in; the people occupying this building were much more extravagant than that. The one-way windows were the epitome of stylish privacy.
Of course, it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway- I was watching the street from fifteen stories above it.
“He will see you now, miss.”
The soft, tentative voice drew my attention, and I turned slightly to see a slight, young woman. Her honey coloured hair was pulled atop her head in a tight, flawless bun. A light smattering of freckles was visible across her nose, which was futilely hidden by a thick layer of foundation. Her hazel eyes told me she was nervous and eager to please, and I smirked inwardly. She wouldn’t last long in a place like this.
As I crossed the room, I left my eyes on her for a moment longer than necessary, purely to amuse myself by making her question her presence. She squirmed uncomfortably, pulling her tight fitting, knee-length black pencil skirt down a fraction, before fidgeting irritably with the earpiece that curled around her ear. She scratched an imaginary speck off the top of her slim, black clipboard with a long, white-tipped fingernail.
I lifted my chin, set my expression and pushed my chest out as I forced open the door and strode confidently into the office of Godfrey Tarantula.
The room was the embodiment of city chic. Beige carpet and black wallpaper was the base for the furniture. Each item was a piece of art in itself. The floor-length window theme continued into this room, but whereas it had been complimented by the simplicity of the reception room, here, the beauty of the city by night was lost in the extravagance of the room’s interior.
Across from me was a heavy, black wooden desk. It was accented by its sharp, angular corners. Behind it was a leather chair. The back of the chair faced me. The floor-length windows ran along the wall to my left, and a long, low divan ran along the wall to my right, in the same black, leathery material as the chair. Modern art in varying shades of white to black decorated the divan wall, and there were elaborately carved glass sculptures in each corner of the room. A crystal chandelier hung above the desk, and each droplet of glass caught and recast the light, painting the floor below it with precise shadow patterns.
Upon the desk lay a telephone and a round fish bowl, which was full of water. Inside it was a single Siamese fighting fish. It was a pure, rich indigo colour, and it swam placidly in circles around the small bowl.
I crossed my arms over my chest and advanced towards the desk. When I reached it, I slapped my palm against it to draw the man’s attention.
“Canis filius,” I hissed, injecting as much venom as I could muster into the words.
The chair began to swivel around, accompanied by an arrogant chuckle.
“Now, now, my dear. There is simply no need to use such vulgar language in my presence, hmm?”
I stared at Godfrey Tarantula and my blood boiled. It was not the first time that we had met; though this was the first time that I had come with a need for blood.
He was thickset, but neither muscly nor fat. His slick black hair screamed of his arrogant, slimy nature, but his sharp, dark eyes reminded one that this was no man to mess with. It seemed that he had a permanent, twisted smile and raised left eyebrow. He was not pleasant to look at; he had the sort of presence and appearance that made one’s stomach flip with nervousness. Not mine, of course; I knew that, for all intents and purposes, I was better than him. It was the people behind him who were too shady to be named that I was afraid of. Almost.