When He's Bored, Bad Things Happen


Accamel Soromir lay sprawled in one of the many window seats in his stylish Darley Street residence. One long leg was propped up on the wall; the other drooped to the floor. His arms were draped loosely across his face and his head hung over the edge of the seat. Anyone who didn’t know Accamel may have presumed him to be dead, or seriously injured, or in some other grave condition. Those who knew him saw only the usual lazy Accamel whiling away a Sunday afternoon.

“Cinder,” came his deep bass voice from within his tented arms, “c’mere.” There was no response. The hallway was deserted. Accamel uncovered his head to reveal a dark, handsome face with crescent-shaped eyes and inky curls. His ears pricked up, listening for a response. “Cinder!” He repeated. “C’mon, Cin, I’m bored."

A spurt of swirling flame suddenly appeared in the paneled hallway. It raged from the ceiling to the floor, orange and red and obviously angry.

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