Lady Adriana

“I’m bored.”

Lady Adriana, consort to Count Johann Feracci, lord of House Feracci and holder of a sacred Warrant of Trade, raised her wine glass to her perfectly formed lips and took a sip.

“I find that statement astonishing . . . and a tad amusing.”

Adriana turned to the speaker. Her so-called master, Feracci, sat in a plush chair, a glass of the finest Amasec in his hand. He looked at her like a predator who has found a female in heat.

She could feel the lust in his soul. She wanted to throw herself at him, drain the lust from his body, then consume his soul.

But he was too useful, she reminded herself.

Count Johaan Feracci

“You live the most amazing life,” Feracci said. “You scandalize the court with your outrageously daring gowns. We attend all the parties of high society. I take you hunting.”

“And,” Adriana whispered, “we engage in the most passionate and decadent of sexual delights.”

For a brief moment, Feracci’s face tightened. Those delights had taken a very dark turn in recent years, and the faces of their victims brought forth a momentary wave of guilt.

Adriana recognized this at once, and she quickly distracted her convenient lover.

“My love, I’m thinking of you,” she said.

She walked over to him. She was, as always, perfect. Auburn hair framed the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Emerald eyes sparkled in the morning sun. Her morning coat, made of the most translucent white, offered a tantalizing view of a perfectly shaped body that stirred Feracci’s blood.

‘You work too hard,” she purred, leaning over and stroking his hair as she gave him a dazzling smile. “Boring trade talks, deciding whom to bribe, organizing and scheduling shipments across a dozen sectors . . . you need something new to take your mind off of things.”

A faint smile crossed Feracci’s lips. He tried to hide it. He liked to think he could deflect Adriana’s sensual manipulations.

“And what would you suggest,” he said, feigning a tone of mild interest.

Adriana slipped into Feracci’s lap and leaned close, her ample bosom pressing against his chest. She brought her lips close to his but, every so tantalizing, she didn’t kiss him.

“Have you heard that Drake is heading to Manolia?”

Feracci harrumphed as only a spoiled aristocrat could.

Adeon Drake

“That mongrel. What interest do I have in a small-time merchant like him?”

“Don’t you remember the fun we had on Morkai?” she asked.

“Drake stabbed you in the belly!”

“I know,” Adriana said gleefully. “And why wouldn’t he? I was trying to stab him with a poison hairpin.”

“You wouldn’t press charges when the Enforcers arrested him,” Feracci grunted. “We  could have been done with him.”

“And where was the fun in that?” Adriana said. She ran her finger along the count’s jawline and felt the physical response she sought.

“I want a rematch,” she said. “I want us to go to Manolia. I’ve learned that Drake is scheduled to leave for the planet in two weeks. Let’s go and find out what he’s up to, and then let’s spoil it. Let’s have fun by doing something outrageous and naughty.”

As Ariana’s caresses moved farther down his neck and chest, Feracci wanted an end to the talking. “It’s reckless and beneath my station,” he said. “Still . . . if that’s what you want.”

“What I want right now,” Adrian said harshly, grabbing at Faucci’s silk shirt, “is you.”

She slid down to the floor, pulling him with her. They began tearing off each other’s clothes. Adriana was laughing—but not about the passion. She was thinking of what fun she’d have trying to kill Drake.

+ + +

TheGM: It’s hard to believe it’s been 10 years since Adriana, Drake and Feracci last fought. I’d created both characters, as well as Feracci, specifically to create a deadly rivalry. But I got distracted from the story arc.

Well, it’s time to move the narrative forward a bit. If you look at his link, you’ll learn that Adriana is a daemon of Slannesh, and Feracci is doomed to a gradual but eventual damnation.

But, in the meantime, Adriana finds Drake an amusing diversion from the decadence that she is enjoying as the consort of a man with immense social, political, and financial resources.

And what better way to enjoy herself than to screw over Drake.

—

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