without_hesitation | (no subject)

Most hated aspect of Darrow, the telephone, had been ringing all day.

At first, Ilithyia had not known what to do with it, having never used it before. She had been shown basics by neighbour whom she trusted little and knew well enough now to answer when it rang. Unlike the few times she had answered before, there was no voice when she pressed the button. All she heard was a man, breathing heavily, the sound lascivious and bothersome. Anger mounted with each passing call, not only for the interruption they provided, but because she was yet preparing for a guest.

Though she had done her share of entertaining in Rome, there had always been slaves to prepare and she found she cared little for the preparations when done herself. Meg would have to content herself with wine Ilithyia had been given by a particularly interested admirer.

The telephone rang once more and Ilithyia listened for a moment before snarling, "I will have your head, cunt, if such nonsense is not stopped immediately."

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"There's someone here," Meg said flatly, and she took the phone, found the number in the history, and pressed send. In the back of the apartment, a phone began to ring.

At the sound of another telephone, Ilithyia turned and rushed, not to her child as most mothers might, but to the kitchen. There, she wrenched open a drawer and withdrew the sharpest, longest knife in her possession. "I promised I would have their head, did I not?" she asked before turning toward the sound without waiting for answer.

Meg, she thought, would join her.

This was suddenly a lot more interesting.

Whoever the cowardly shit was, she could've burned out their insides with a thought, but watching Ilithyia gut the bastard would be a pretty satisfying end to the day.

"Don't let me get in the way," she said, making an after you sweep of her hand.

The sound of the telephone had been cut off and Ilithyia paused in the hall, listening. The apartment was far from as large as her villa and there was limited places to hide, but she wanted to be sure. If she went to the second bedroom while intruder was in the first, it was possible he might get by.

Perhaps not past Meg, but Ilithyia wanted to her hands upon him.

"My bedroom," she hissed, glancing back at Meg for briefest of moments. Then she was entering the room, pausing in the doorway before she walked straight to the closet.

Following Ilithya down the hall, Meg leaned in the bedroom doorway, arms folded casually and an expectant arch to her brow, content to sit back and let the show play out. For now.

If she needed to intervene, she would. Or wouldn't. Ilithyia was an interesting companion, but Meg couldn't necessarily say she would mourn her. She was a demon, after all.

For a moment she simply stood in the room, sunlight glinting off the blade of the knife and then she heard a soft, muffled breath from the closet. Grasping the handle, she yanked the door open, bringing the blade down at the same time.

The face was one she didn't know, didn't care to know, and his eyes went wide as the blade slashed into his belly. Ilithyia withdrew the blade and stepped away from the spray of blood, but couldn't avoid it entirely.

Her brow arched a little higher, but apart from that, she seemed not to react to the sudden spray of blood. It certainly wasn't her first, and not nearly the most brutal death she'd witnessed.

"Looks like we've got a mess to clean up," she said, while he bled out, in mere seconds, onto the floor.

Ilithyia looked down for a long moment, watching the man die on the floor of her bedroom, the knife still held in one hand. He looked up at her and she held his gaze, no regret, no remorse. He was intruder, he had threatened her child, he needed to die.

There was a dark streak of blood on her gown, drops on her face, though she paid them little mind. "What I wouldn't give for slaves at such moment," she admitted, finally turning to face Meg once again. She lifted her hand, pushing hair back from her face, leaving a smear of blood on one cheek.

"Lucky for you, this sack of shit is gonna walk himself right out of here," Meg smirked, taking a step forward. "The blood might be a bigger problem, but I can only do so much."

Then, sitting on the edge of the bed and turning black eyes on Ilithyia, whom she knew wouldn't be easy to frighten, she tilted back her head, and with a wide-mouthed scream, black smoke poured from her mouth, traveling in a serpentine flow into the mouth of the dead man. Meg's body dropped onto the mattress, the man's eyes springing open in the same moment.

He stood, his wound bleeding only sluggishly now. "I expect that to still be there, when I get back," he said, looking toward the actress from Cheboygan, whom Meg had inhabited for years, now. "I'm kinda fond of it, you understand."

Knife in hand, Ilithyia watched, head tipped to the side. She understood little of what happened, but enough to know that Meg had left one body and entered the other and although Ilithyia didn't know what could do such a thing, she wasn't afraid.

More interested with every passing moment, but not afraid.

"I have little need to damage her," she said. Whoever Meg was, that woman on the bed was not hers. It was fascinating. "Gratitude for assistance."

"I'm sure you'll think of a way to pay me back," Meg smirked with an unfamiliar male mouth, then, without wasting any more time, the man, blood mostly hidden in the folds of his dirty coat, turned to leave.

Meg would dump him in an alley, a frequent site of such crimes, stripped clean of all evidence. The man had no friends, and on his journey, he attracted no attention from nosy witnesses. It was all kind of boring, if you asked Meg.

In less than an hour, black smoke poured from the vent in Ilithyia's bedroom and streamed into the mouth of the body of that poor girl from Cheboygan.

Meg's black eyes sprang open.

In the time Meg was gone, Ilithyia had seen to her son, removed gown and washed blood from her skin. The gown itself was perhaps ruined and she considered what was to be done before deciding she would request Caesar's assitance in ridding herself of it.

The blood in the bedroom would stain, but she had reluctantly washed it as best she could and would cover it when it was dry.

And when the smoke returned, she watched curiously. This was important information to be in possession of, she knew, but she felt it would benefit her little. Meg was not one to manipulate. That didn't make it any less interesting.