Thrown before his feet like some common wench, Sif lay sprawled over the bailey, powerless to stand, much less raise her head. She wasn't injured, that much Altair could see, yet the look in those pale silver blue eyes of her's carried a look he had seen in many dead men.
"This is Sif?"
It was Freya who nodded. "Yes, a family friend, if you will," and with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, she said, "one whom we gave our demon infantry to play with for… Gods, how long was it?"
"You're asking me?" Arsene scratched his cheek. "I can't remember what I did yesterday."
"That would be me," Freya said in an alluring tone.
"Not at the table," Aurelia mouthed off, leaning over on Zariels shoulder, half asleep. She yawned, muttering, 'Feed me,' to Zariel. Who promptly ignored her.
