Wandering Flies

A lean man with snow-white hair and milky brows was disconcerted. He stood still, adorning a baggy aqua-blue shirt complete with dark headphones draping his pale neck. His flawless skin was somewhat sapped and bloodless beneath the gentle, silver lighting.

In the quiet and empty elevator, he assessed the cellphone that a woman had earlier dropped as she was rushing out hurriedly. That cellphone now sat in his pale hand, under the dubious scrutiny of his lime-green eyes.

Archer Quinn had failed to recognize the lady. Nonetheless, she had been strikingly gorgeous, to say the least. When that woman had stood beside him earlier in the elevator, her unique and flowery scent had drifted to him, reminding him of the fabled wood nymphs. Nonetheless, there was something especially idiosyncratic in her smell.

When he had glanced inquisitively at her, he had glimpsed her long, wavy hair which was comprised by lush brown locks that seemed to have been carved from the bark of a tree. Half of her hair was confined in an immaculate bun at the back of her head while the other tendrils draped her shapely back.

Her thoughtful, bright eyes were an entrancing cocktail of golden and amber that seeped into a nearly emerald hue just beneath her wing-like lashes. She was akin to a totem-rare fruit he had never tasted before. When his gaze had lowered further, urged by his irrefutable attraction, Archer had liked what he saw even more.

Nonetheless, this woman had failed to notice him, a renowned painter and one of the company's major shareholders. Maybe it was because he was already 35 years old(on paper, that is)? So the younger generation was more compelled by recent stars?

Archer's brows furrowed as he wondered how he could return the phone she had unknowingly dropped. As he descended into further turmoil, the phone in his pocket buzzed. With a low groan, he produced his phone, his eyes narrowing at the caller's name.

He stepped out from the elevator as he picked up the call.

"Been a while, you nasty lizard," Archer uttered irritably, albeit in a lower tone, striding past bowing young stars with bedazzled faces, to find a shadowy little corner he could confine his large build in. He leaned against the wall with an irate look, his green eyes growing remote from the rest of the world.

A cool voice responded over the line, radiating enough simmers to melt the entire North Pole. "I see that you are as illiterate as ever, Archer. Centuries pass and you still lack the gall to assume eloquency."

"Cut the crap and tell me want you want," Archer said, contrasting to his benevolent facade and brushed his snow-white fringe past his forehead.

"I hear that you are producing three films here in England," the voice added inquisitively.

Archer rolled his eyes. "I did not think you were the type to indulge in small-time films," he remarked facetiously.

"My inclinations have not changed in the slightest. Nonetheless, there is someone I want you to consider for your casting in all three films," the masculine voice answered, a hint of amusement punctuating their otherwise void tone.

Archer's back stiffened at his words. The middle-aged man's eyes narrowed doubtfully before dilating quietly in realization. He stood upright immediately, his pulse quickening at the abrupt information. Innumerable, untold queries swirled in his mind. Nonetheless, Archer feigned indifference.

After clearing his throat, Archer asked, with a churlish grin, "How very odd. The invincible Alexander Sear is personally recommending someone to me? Did you finally cast away all your brains to think with that organ?"

Alexander chuckled. He was standing at the balcony just outside his extensive and dark room, basking in the flaxen kiss of the midday sun. Even then, there was an invisible barrier towering over the castle and filtering the actual rays of light.

Such a barrier was necessary if Alexander did not want to be scorched to dust for the umpteenth time. Even an undead like him was opposed to being burnt to death.

His imposing figure was devastatingly handsome with his unbuttoned shirt revealing his drool-worthy muscles and bronzed skin. A marble-like muscle on his left arm was decorated with a blistering crimson sun—a tattoo of it, that is—that seemed to blind the eyes of whoever saw it.

He was holding the phone to his ear while his left hand fondled a glass of unknown red liquid. His dark, compelling eyes were fixated on the glass in his hand as he spoke, "Be a dear, Archer, and don't do anything vacuous. Her name is Selena Fawkner and she's signed with Dazzle Entertainment. An audition for a leading role in all of your films would suffice."

'A leading role in all of my films? What if that chick was accused by the garrulous media of climbing into my bed then?' Archer grunted, his lips twitching. "So it's a command, right?"

Alexander smiled softly but his gaze was so devilish and spine-chilling. "Command. Threat. They are all one and the same because the consequences of defying them do not change," he told him.

Archer crossed his arms. "And you're not going to tell me anything else about this 'Selena'?" He asked.

"Other than she is mine alone to hold, there is nothing more to say," Alexander responded, whispers of a threat rimming his voice as he spoke of his 'possession'. Archer could only purse his lips in agony at this. He hadn't even tried anything yet on Alex's mystery girl.

Suddenly, a troubling thought came to Alexander and he released an exhausted sigh, adjusting his posture to lean against the edge of the balcony.

His sharp hearing captured two voices downstairs—one was that of his daughter, Isolde, who was constantly asking about Aisha's whereabouts, and the other voice, quite disturbed, was that of Isolde's art teacher.

"You should be careful with your movements, Archer. The still waters are gradually turning turbulent... My conjecture is that those people have started moving again," Alexander uttered and sipped the red liquid in his chalice. Its redness marred his lips, contrasting with his cool, grey eyes and adding a devilish edge to his clean looks.

Archer nodded, his expression turning dire. "So...they are in England, are they? Hah, pesky flies can't stop wandering about where they are not needed," he said, "I'll be careful...while I'm mincing them back to their dusty graves, Alex."