#newlyn grym

[dracoqueen22]

Death Deferred- Fic Snippet

There's only one type of ghost hunter.

That's the answer Newlyn gave anytime someone questioned his legitimacy or his capability. Ghosts existed, in several different forms, this was a provable fact. Haunts. Spirits. Banshees. Lingerers. Wraiths.

There were as many different types of ghosts as there were concoctions in Newlyn's alchemy book. The dead rarely rested in peace, and they always had something to say after the fact, very loudly if no one was listening. They didn't like to be ignored. It made them angry, and angry ghosts were dangerous ghosts.

Newlyn's hope was to get to them before they got angry, but that rarely happened. People tended to ignore their hauntings until they got deadly, because again, ghosts didn't like to be ignored.

So. Was Newlyn a real ghost hunter?

If asked, he'd smile and say, "there's only one type of ghost hunter," and then he'd launch into a summary of all the methods at his disposal. As long as he knew what he was getting into, he could be effective. It was knowing what he was up against that was the trick. That and plying his trade with a wealthy, but impressionable mark. 

There's only one kind of ghost hunter, and Newlyn was the best at what he did. All you had to do was ask him.

Which was why he stood outside the Nightsworn gates, watching them swing open with nary a creak. The rich, the elite, nothing they owned made a noise of disuse. The hinges were well-oiled, the ornate metal curved and gleaming.

Newlyn adjusted his vest and stepped inside as soon as there was room for him to pass. The gates immediately shifted to close again behind him, emanating magical energy. This was no cheap enchantment. Trust the obscenely wealthy to expend unnecessary arcane resources when hiring someone would do the job just as well.

Mica Nightsworn, current matriarch of the Nightsworn family, definitely counted herself among the obscenely wealthy, though most of her coin was generational wealth. Rumor had it that her husband, the original Nightsworn, died under mysterious circumstances. Perhaps that's why Newlyn had been summoned. Had the late Nightsworn made a nuisance of himself?

Nightsworn Manor loomed in front of him, a three-story construction of wood and stone, ivy crawling up the sides, and a balcony wrapping around the east side of the building. The Nightsworn crest hung in gilded platinum above the double front-doors, which opened as Newlyn climbed the stone-carved steps with taps of his boots.

More enchantments, more excess of magic.

Newlyn sighed. Oh, to have that much coin to waste. He stepped into a foyer, lit by a massive chandelier with a thousand tiny everlights casting tiny flickers in all directions. A pair of curved staircases led up to a second floor, and he counted no less than five doors from his vantage point. Huge tapestries decorated the walls, the Nightsworn crest most prominent in the handwoven fabrics.

"You must be the hunter." The cool, cultured voice echoed throughout the foyer.

Newlyn followed the statement to an adjoining door where Lady Mica Nightsworn herself stood, draped in shades of cream and purple, her hands clasped genteel in front of her. She dripped with poise, her lips painted in mauve to match her eyes, the poke of delicately adorned tusks barely visible. She was darker than Newlyn’s tawny-brown, and the coil of her long, black hair had been arranged in a careful twist of knots and braids atop her head. 

A servant would have spent at least fifteen minutes on those braids. 

"I am." Newlyn planted his most convincing smile on his face, dipping into a polite bow that was low enough not to offend even the most arrogant of nobility. "Zhem-Newlyn Grym, at your service."