There is, perhaps for the first time, genuine fear in Johnny's eyes. Not the uneasy trepidation he'd shown before, nor the flashes of anger at Unthank's prying, but true, helpless, thoughtless terror. Human beings, he has always thought, are remarkable when they're afraid. Not the kind of fear that prompts men to do brave deeds-- or stupid ones-- but the primal fear that comes when someone thinks they're about to die. That fear clutches and consumes, reduces a man to the animal, to nothing more sophisticated than screaming and trying anything to pull away from the killing blow.

That is... magnificent.

Of course, Johnny isn't there yet, but the raw panic in him makes Unthank smile.

And then with a rush, the door slams open. He frowns, mouth pursing into an almost petulant little moue. The house-- this house-- doesn't like him much, it would seem. He can feel, in fact, how strongly it wants him to leave, the very air heavy with unwelcome. He allows a few moments to string themselves together, waiting to see if the house will do anything else, but it does not. Deliberately, Unthank crosses over to the door and firmly closes it, giving the jamb a little pat with one hand.

'Cheeky,' he admonishes. 'I am conducting business here.'

He can practically feel the room glowering at him, fire licking higher for a moment, but nothing further follows, and he subsides back into the centre of the room, a pleased smile curling the corners of his mouth. Back to the business at hand. Back to dear, defenceless Johnny.

The shadows he'd summoned are still at hand, binding Johnny in place, and Unthank pivots delicately on one heel, pacing back until he's standing within inches of the boy.

'Your dreams, I believe,' he says mildly. And then, voice dropping low and gravelled, 'You said you dreamt of being devoured.'