Archibald Horatio Fritz recognized he wasn't particularly a man of patience. Maybe living for a mere seven-and-a-half thousand years had done that to him. But dammit, couldn’t that clown Igor get this single task done in time? All he had to do was deliver Roger Ing as soon as the tradesman entered Dunvegas, before another woman could soil the magic Fritz had planted on the mortal.
What on Earth could be keeping them?
This was going to be one of those weeks, he could tell. It started when he'd arrived at his office this morning and noticed the Marfeld Granite had been stolen, again, from his fireplace. The pitch black hole in the hearth's stone surrounding stood out as a sullen marker to its absence.
Fritz wasn't too worried about it. The problem with owning a sentient magical stone was that, when it had the mind to, it vanished at regular intervals by persuading someone to steal it. It invariably found its way back eventually, probably a year or two down the road, having caused much havoc while it traveled. After the first time, when he'd spent six months chasing the damn thing on horseback across medieval Europe, he just let it do its own thing. It was a lot simpler.
Impatiently he glanced up at the door.
Where the Hell are they?
Irritated, Fritz shuffled the papers on his desk, then settled back to reading the report he'd ordered on Roger. The fool was perfect for the job, unfortunately. Fritz just hoped Roger was man enough to do it.
Finally, there was a knock on the door. Quickly checking the local aura, Fritz recognized Igor's cold blue chill and the fuzzy puce of Roger, along with the ghostly aura of Roger’s parents.