Asenath, fair of face but foul of heart, was a knot of rage. For hours, she paced back and forth in her finely furnished apt until her feet were sore -- and even then she was no closer to any peace. Twice now had Archer taken something of hers: Eunice's friendship was no real loss; Asenath would have sacrificed her to the Elder Gods a thousand times over if it meant getting a hold of Loki's Glass.
She thought back on their last conversation at the auction house and, perhaps as a result of habit, let the blame fall on the Archer boy and Eunice equally. Whenever her thoughts turned to Albert Archer, his image was shrouded in an unexplainable kind of mystique and dread. It was because of this that her gut told her that it would be unwise to attack him directly, and Asenath trusted her instincts.
While she had no qualms with getting her hands dirty, she knew she would have to find subtler avenue instead, a crack in that proud highborn armor. None bested Asenath and walked away unscathed. At last, her gaze fell upon the silver whistle sitting on her desk nearby. The sight of it made the cogs and wheels turn in her head, churning out a devious scheme. The byakhee. It suddenly occurred to her that she hadn't taken her new pets for a ride in weeks. It was high time to call forth her warbirds from the Outer Dark and set them to work.
And to think that Eunice had herself collected the meteorite needed to fashion the very whistle that would be used in her undoing. As she took the whistle between her fingers, Asenath took a moment to wallow in her glee.
Saltonstall street shook with a high-pitched, unearthly noise. But only for a fraction of a second, then it was no more.