We are well into our third bottle of scotch when Charles Hamilton raises his face and gives me a strangely tepid smile. I understand that the polite thing to do is to force myself to smile in response, but why bother? He can’t see me and nor do I owe this mortal anything more than the courtesy of my time. Even that is only being granted to him because he has information that I want and that, oddly enough, I am unable to extract from his mind.
“Another?” He asks, pushing the bottle lightly toward me with the tips of his fingers. “I couldn’t sleep if I wanted to.” He shrugs. “My mind is spinning. Too much information and not enough of it to provide me with answers.”
“What answers are you seeking?”
Although I cannot read his thoughts, I already know his response and he senses this. I’ve lived long enough among mortals to understand that they are, above all else, very often predictable.
He continues to stare at me with his blind gaze from behind his dark glasses. His lips twitch slightly as he raises his hand to run it through his short, salt and pepper hair.
As with all men, be they mortals or Gods, he eventually lower’s his gaze, unable to bear my regard.
“I want to know where Ishitar went.” He mutters. “I want to know what happened to Iladrul’s baby. And I want to know if Loki ousted Noliminan from his throne.”
I chuckle lightly at that last bit.
“No one knew, for some time, what became of Ishitar.” I reply, trying, now, not to smile. “He was meant to go to a human family.” His brow furrows slightly. “He chose not to.”