“Mr. Callum!” Lyle said, breathing heavily as he ran into the lavishly barren dining room of the Perrault penthouse. He stopped to wheeze heavily before he mustered up the strength to begin with his usual barrage of frantic concerns. “We’ve had another detection, multiple detections that is.”
Winston turned his head slightly to clock the entrance, lacking in surprise, but certainly perturbed, as always. He hovered near the table, in his usually drab attire, where a seated Perrault clanked his cutlery gently, indulging in a tomahawk steak that teetered on raw, its blood red juices dripping out and seeping the formerly starched mashed potatoes on his plate, while faint orchestral music played in the background.
Adjusting his glasses, Winston gave half attention. “It’s dinner time, Lyle. Can’t you see that Mr. Perrault is amongst company?”
Lyle looked over the table, before cold recognition set in. The severed head of the cowboy businessman, among other wide eyed men of the same ilk, were placed on risers at each seat and looking shoulder level at Perrault from around the silk white cloth of the table.
“He’s holding court,” Winston said, trying to reign back contempt from crossing his glare at the constant interruptions from Lyle, who cried wolf quite frequently.
“I—I understand sir,” Lyle fumbled. “I just wanted you to know that we’ve faced attack at numerous sites. Werewolves have been spotted by the shrunken ones. They've ceased all functioning workers onsite. It's a mess,” Lyle uttered, seemingly distraught himself, as if it personally affected him, not just on a work level. “It's just a darn mess,” he continued, then disappointed in himself, muttering with distaste, “excuse my language.”
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Winston raised his brow in acceptance, always intrigued by the oddities of the boy in front of him. Perhaps that was why Mr. Perrault indulged him so, the humor of it all. Or perhaps he just took pity on one well beneath his standing.
Moving away from distraction, Winston nodded his head. Perhaps Lyle cried wolf accurately this time. Perrault remained silent, enjoying his steak with a glass of red wine. “We shall send reinforcements then. Does that appease you, as you’re at the head of the table apparently?” Winston cleared his throat mockingly.
“That’s not all, sir.” Lyle gulped. “Warehouse 7 was disrupted during a ceremony. All the lambs escaped and the majority of our members slain, if not debilitated for quite some time. Save for one.”
Winston’s eyes rolled, tracking the man’s next words narrowly, a knife's edge could be felt from their turn.
“Tyler Martinson,” He sighed. “We’ve been unable to confirm his whereabouts.”
“So be it,” Winston chided, “he was not of much value anyway, nor his father.”
“But,” Lyle winced. “He knows where the Grand Ball is. The Great Masquerade, and has invitation for them. It could ruin all our plans.”
Winston cricked his head to the side, clearly agitated. “The preparations have already been made. Tomorrow night will remain the ball, and we will plate for extra guests,” he looked at the heads surrounding the table. Understood?”
“Yes sir, thank you sir,” he nodded to Winston and half bowed to Perrault before briskly exiting the room.
“Mr. Perrault...” Winston turned to his lord, to find a wine glass trembling in his veiny hands.
SHATTER!
The glass exploded, shards flying everywhere, even planting in the eyes and faces of some of the body-less guests, though they surely didn't mind it in their current state.
Perrault’s face shook with rage, his eyes blackening.
“Mr. Perrault,” Winston spoke up cool and collected, “I’ll make sure nothing comes of it. We shall be prepared. As we always are. They are not aware that we are expecting them. No one will interrupt your special evening. There is only one guest of import, and she will be glad for the extra company,” he grinned.
