Handsome, intelligent, and talented -- by age 28, Camwyn was also obscenely wealthy, utterly bored, and definitely damaged goods. He moved through tonight's party like an assassin's knife -- carefully wrapped in the finest silks, yes, but nevertheless trailing deadly poison wherever he went. Old lovers tried to catch his eye. He ignored them like he ignored everyone else. Once again, there was no one of interest to be seen.
One girl was bold enough to step in front of him and attempt a flirtation, proudly exhibiting her lithe young body as if she had a monopoly on beauty. He was cuttingly brutal in his reply and she fled the room, scarlet-faced, as onlookers laughed behind their hands.
Immune to opinion, he wound his way out to the dark and deserted balcony that overlooked the sleeping city and (as always with high places) idly imagined flinging himself that short distance through space. At least that would be a novelty.
There was a faint movement in the shadows to his right. A sneer crept across his face. He despised being observed when he had imagined himself to be alone. But whoever it was made no move to greet him. There was just enough light to reveal an elegant hand setting down a wine glass on the balcony railing.
A voice whispered, "Camwyn." Enticing, threatening, caressing, and altogether deadly.
Then, swift as thought, the shadowed figure leapt over the balcony, but not to fall, oh no. Impossibly, he could make out their diminishing form hurling into the skies. Camwyn's heart leaped and he clutched the railing with one hand as he strained to make out their destination. But he – or she – was gone from sight.
Camwyn picked up the deserted wine glass and lifted it to his lips. There were a few drops left and he let them trickle slowly over his tongue.
It was like nothing he had ever tasted. It was sweet, dark and rich. And best of all, there was a distant aftertaste of fatality.
"At last," Camwyn murmured, as something like happiness seeped into his cold cold heart.
