Jaelin disappeared obediently to search for a sword. Sylnie stood warily in the doorway. I approached Niven's prone form as he fruitlessly tried to pull himself free.
"So here's what's going to happen," I told him. "I'm going to ask you a series of questions. The more helpful you are, the more likely I'll shove my blade through something other than your heart."
"Here's what's going to happen," he corrected. "You're going to ask me a series of questions and I'm going to keep telling you to fuck off."
"I don't know what your relationship with Rathros is, exactly," I admitted. "But I'm sure that he's not worth dying for."
"That's true," Niven agreed. "But I don't give a shit about Rathros. I'd be telling you to fuck off mostly on principle."
Jaelin returned, sword in hand. I took it from her and pointed it carefully between Niven's eyes. "Where is Rathros?" I asked him.
"Fuck off," he replied.
"Why are you waiting for him?" I asked.
"Who helped you escape the last time you killed me?" I asked.
"It was a demon named Fuckoff McFuckofferton."
"Makes sense," I said dryly. "Lots of demons have Irish names."
"No, wait! It might have been Fuckovsky."
"You're not as hilarious as you think you are," I told him.
"And you're not as intimidating as you think you are," he returned evenly.
"I can fix that," I said, and I drove the sword deep into his right shoulder, relishing his agonized scream. "That's a Firstborn-killing blade," I taunted. "You can feel the difference, can't you? It hurts more, doesn't it?"
"Stings a little," he winced, breathing heavily.
"Ready to talk?" I asked.
He sighed. "What was it you wanted to know again?"
"I want to know where Rathros is," I grated.
"Never heard of him," he proclaimed with a sly grin.
I stabbed him again.