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Daimon Winter

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London had changed a lot since the century turned, Daimon thought as he stepped out of his hired coach and looked up the grand sweep of stairs leading to Lord Roxbury's mansion. But some things never changed. Here in the Year of Our Lord 1903, rich Westenders still offered up their children to each other like they would any other bribe--selling off daughters and occasionally sons for the sake of money and connections. Granted, they packaged each step of the transaction nicely. Like tonight's gathering: young ladies swanning around in ball gowns, alcohol flowing, more food laid on the dining tables than the whole of the East End saw in three days. Awkward interactions between teens and twentysomethings--and the occasional aging and somewhat predatory widower, whom the girls often tried unsuccessfully to avoid. Lord Roxbury, a skinny half-Frenchman with floppy dark blond hair, a prissy mustache and an annoyingly nasal voice, would be out tonight in force, leering at women a third his age. This despite his fourth wife being in the ground for barely a month. Men like Roxbury were why Daimon hated the rich with such passion. And tonight, he intended to take the bastard down several pegs. 

He tipped his driver well, instructing him in low tones to return at eleven sharp and wait near the servants' entrance at the back of the building, and then loped athletically up the stairs with his cane under his arm, earning a few gasps and comments from the hoi polloi. Let them fuss a little, he thought as he smirked to himself. It was the only warning they were getting of what was to come. His plan was simple: quietly run a telepathic con game against the worst people here, take them for whatever he could, make sure they didn't remember him--and then cap the evening by humiliating Roxbury as an amusing distraction, while he quietly slipped upstairs to replace some of the man's jewel collection with glass replicas.

He heard a few comments on his race as he topped the stairs, and made a mental note of the speakers--an older woman and a nervous redheaded man who turned out to be her son. Hearing "Shouldn't that wog be going in the servants' entrance?" was common to him, but nowadays he didn't have to just put up with it. He paused near a pretty brunette and glanced back at them, a sly smile on his face. Tonight the two were going to get ridiculously drunk and air every bit of dirty laundry their family had gathered for three generations, and she would develop a lingering impulse to punch police officers in the face. He looked between them as they stared at him, and then he turned on his heel and headed inside, pausing only to tip his hat to the young lady.

"Did you see how that bloody Wog looked at me? The nerve of him!" The woman had swelled up to half again her size, looking a bit like an angry pigeon in her lavender and grey ensemble. 

"Yes, Mother, I know, that was terribly rude." The redhead raised his hands in a conciliatory manner, just trying to calm her down before she made a gigantic scene. He was clearly terrified of her.

"I should summon the police at once! People like that should know their pl--" She paused. A puzzled expression crossed her face, and her features and manner relaxed. "...I...Cecil, what was I talking about?"

Cecil looked relieved for a split second--and then the strange confusion settled into his features as well. "I um...well...honestly I can't remember. I must have gotten distracted."

She scowled at him. "Well, come on, then, don't dawdle about like an idiot. We'll catch our deaths out here!" She heaved her way up the stairs, brushing rudely past the young lady near the entrance as she did so. "Mind where you're walking!" she snapped at the girl.

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