Death Stalkers
Marjory prepares to sneak into the pub; Amity prepares to watch her back — but are they prepared for what they find within?

King of Cups Pub, Toronto, ON, Canada

May 2nd, 2013

"Barge into my pub. Ask me questions like you've earned it. Run off, little flies. Before what's owed here comes to roost."

Outside the medieval scroll of the King of Cups Pub sign, the city is more modern, more tarnished even than the falsely antiquated bronze signage. Street-lights spottily shine onto the dull sidewalks of this part of Old Toronto, a hundred years of use and repair flattened into stone and grime and gum-wrappers. An unsteady trickling of traffic keeps the street from being completely quiet, along with the occasional shouts of people, though it's hard to say where they are or why they're shouting; the normal nighttime chorus of the city.

Neon graffiti hardly less bright in the dark of night decorates the wall of the slightly derelict building next to the pub, which forms a narrow alley hardly large enough to fit more than a few people and strays at a time, but garbage bags are nevertheless piled at the far end, beside the chipped, olive-green back door to the King of Cups. The establishment has been closed for about an hour. Against this illustrious backdrop is the slim form of Marjory, decked in the same dark clothes and bag as earlier in the day, with the addition of gloves. Her fiery hair has been pulled back into a long ponytail.

Around the corner, another slim figure dressed entirely in black comes to the scene. Skinny black denim jeans, a black tank, black leather gloves, and a black leather flack jacket cropped at Amity's waist make her look more like a biker than a thug. Particularly where her hair is considered. Two braids along the sides line the sides of her head (along with the rest of her hair) have been pinned into a neat bun. Her blue eyes peer curiously at Marjory and she reaches into her pocket for the 'blueprint' she'd swiped earlier. "I imagine you don't actually need this — "

Bemusement reflects in her eyes and even more in her very red lips. Why she deemed the lipstick necessary is anyone's guess. Her keen blue eyes scan the building and the street. "Well it's certainly quiet…"

They look like a true duo. Marjory, however, keeps her distance. It's not plain distrust that keeps her back, just caution — a wariness for the whole situation borne from her own set of smarts. "I have it memorized," she guesses. Firmly. "But it's from an old blueprint, I think. Things get moved around sometimes." A sixteen year old who's broken into buildings to sneak around before, then. A flash of metal reveals a small device in her fabric-gloved hand as she moves onto the small, pointless step affront the door; less a professional lock-pick in her possession than bits of metal pieced together to do the same job. She begins to fiddle with the door's lock, quiet as a few mouse-scratchings. Amity might be here to "watch her back," but Marjory nevertheless shoots cautious looks down the alley to the street while she attempts to unlawfully unlock one of its staple buildings.

"Good to know," comes the smooth response from the older of the women. Amity turns around to face the street and peek down the alley this way and that. There's a smirk spread over her features as she leans down one side and then the other, her mind working at the what they're doing here. And then the smirk spreads as she raises a gloved hand to her hair. She'd spent hours working on it to get it just right, and then had tried multiple lipsticks before settling on the red. If she'd end up in a mugshot, decidedly, she'd look good in it.

The door opens without much fuss and the device is slipped into Marjory's jacket. Twisting the handle, she leans her slight weight into the door until it opens a crack. She stands just listening for a moment, separating the casual din of the city from the dullness of the confined space within. Silence. Unaccustomed to company, she says nothing; she just slips into the darkness.

It's much colder inside than the spring night outside. The gentle hum is telling of nearby freezers. The door emerges into some manner of dark back room by the kitchen, not quite the storeroom, a fact further illuminated by Marjory's flashlight once she's fished, easily, from her bag. It's a small thing, only narrowly spotlighting one area at a time. Flash of a fridge. A freezer. A table with something scattered on it. A deck of cards, maybe.

"Have you guessed everything yet," Marjory questions, hushed, under her breath; there's a bit of a jab to her soft voice, made more precise by her accent; Amity certainly likes to wonder. But then, so does Marjory.

There's a moment of silent thankfulness that Amity had bothered to wear her leather jacket, lest she be freezing in this space. There's a flicker of a smile at the question, not that Marjory can see it in this space. Those blue-grey eyes peer out against the darkness before reaching into her pocket for a penlight flashlight which is promptly flicked to the 'on' position. It's shone directly behind them and then at the ground under them. Light in dark makes all the difference.

"Everything I've considered is impossible," she whispers back more to the darkness than Marjory herself. "But then so were the clues…" Yet here she is. On some level, this particular wanderer thrives on the impossible.

Marjory lets the quietness take over as they explore the dark pub more deeply, the sound of refrigeration slowly become duller and duller. As she leads the way out of one room and into a shallow hall, however, her light catches on the old, dark, varnished wood of the walls; they gleam with an untold history, deep and rich, and she can't help but give in to the atmosphere. "There's a rumour…" she whispers, "that someone was killed in the storeroom of the King of Cups, that it was kept out of the headlines, the killer was never found…" The flashlight beam skitters over an unmarked wooden door across the hall. It's unmarked, but if the blueprint was right, it's that very storeroom. "And that he's still out there somewhere."

Amity continues to scan the space behind them, her penlight flicking this way and that to fulfill her role in this particular mission: watch Marjory's back. Quite literally, it would seem. The whispered words cause the twenty-something to cant her head with immense curiosity. "Was it recently?" she whispers in turn, not that it really matters, particularly as goosebumps trail along each of her limbs. The dark haired woman is silently thankful for all of the leather she's wearing.

"Yeah. Sort of." Distracted by what lies ahead and the story behind it, there seems to be no more room for clarification. Marjory takes one precise stride for the door, laying her hand gingerly on its handle, and looks over her shoulder at the indistinct shape of Amity. "I've got to go in by myself," she whispers to the older woman. "Only— only come in if there's someone coming," she adds, the solitary girl unaccustomed to such orders. "Only then!" She cocks the flashlight up to shine right in Amity's face, watching to make absolutely sure she agrees convincingly.

The flashlight in her face actually just causes Amity to blink a lot and turn momentarily blind by the flurry of colours and OMGSUDDENLIGHT that flood her vision. Blinking hard, she looks away and pushes Marjory's arm away. "Fine. It's your quest," she says quietly. "I only came to watch your back anyways." Pause, "If you need help, I'm just a holler away~" And then, if only to explore and occupy her time, she shines the light around the area surrounding the store room to give herself something else to do.

While Amity prowls the hall that's nothing but quiet, Marjory enters the room that's nothing but empty of all but its purpose. To the naked eye, at least, all it holds is boxes; alcohol brand labels that become bright in slivers here and there under the flashlight beam. To Marjory, it has the potential to hold so much more. She can feel it.

The young self-proclaimed warrior walks the room as one might walk a crime scene, on the outskirts; a difficult task, when her hip bumps an open cardboard flap here, an elbow knocks a box there, barricading her in. Once she's sure that the room has nothing to visibly show for itself but, indeed, boxes, she turns out her flashlight. She's bathed in black. The only hint of light remaining comes from the small, rectangular slat of a window, only letting a feeble street glow in from outside through a dusty pane. She breathes in the room's thick darkness.

It winds up being in the center of the room that the past calls out to her the strongest. Here, the energy pulses with a life on the edge. Here, the storeroom stores more than boxes. It stores the violent last moments of someone's existence on this plane.

The harsh cry of a dry throat straining for breath — it fills Marjory's core, feeling louder than a freight train next to her ear.

The splotchy bare bulb of the storeroom is on, casting yellow light down upon the balding, round head of a man who's been made to kneel on torn plastic sheeting. She can see the shiny empty patch on the top of his head where his brown hair goes sparse and non-existent, as if she stands above him; she can see that he's choking, spitting blood already invigorated out of his mouth from loosened teeth with each pointless gasp. Every line of his distraught face is made more vivid by his fear for his life. Bulging eyes, they're hazel, a blur of colour reaching out of his head, point at the window, stricken.

He's talking, but his words aren't words until "No— !" A narrow belt or sharp cord is lashed around the man's soft, too-plush neck; as Marjory watches, another's hands pull it tight from behind. His murderer's hands. It slices skin, threatening to sever every vital human contraption within his throat.

All under the future eye of the teenager that isn't really there.

No comfort at the window. Fog collects on its panels in a patch blurring a lurking, hunched, black vision; sccrrt, scratching at the glass. Something observes the murderous on-goings, revels, and calls for an invitation.

"Th— !" — a hurk as the lash tightens, "B— east— " Morbid resignation, like fate itself breathes down his neck, gurgles from the man's detaching neck.

Marjory startles, a surge of adrenaline that feels as though it becomes caught in her throat as she watches the man's bleed. No, there is no glory here. No one was ever meant to see this, to know this. Certainly, no one was meant to live to tell the story.

Snapping her head away, the girl's gaze into the past follows that of the victim's. She is met not with his wistful escape in that window, but the fact that she is not — was not — the only watcher.

The image is vague, yet the black shape strikes her to her core in an instinctive knowledge: this is something rare; this is something old; this is something drawn to the field of death like me.

No reverence or acknowledgment from the grip of grounded death behind the man. Heedless to the fright, answering only the ring of resignation: blood boils over the cord before a damp belch. The throat rattles its last, disconnected, murmur.

The breath at the window is gone, or was never there.

Without distraction at the window, the young observer's sights are called back to the precise scene of the crime. Though blood is spilling from a body that no longer holds life, the enactment echoes in her head over and over; the desperate denials of the man; the pull of the cord; B— east—

Beast, animal, monster, Wolf?

She focuses on the shadow-drenched face of the killer, facing up to it with fierce bravery that is unnecessary. He can't see her. She wasn't there.

She can only see— but see so vividly it's like feeling. Experiencing the scuffle, hot breath grislier— fraught with mortal heartbeats— against her neck than the ghost ones abandoning the window. Like feeling the very cord snapping around a throat softer, less pudgy skin for protection so that the hard material cuts straight to the quick. Seeing it so strongly that it's in her bones and

She's choking.

"Hnn— " A attempt, all to quiet, to shout her distress, turns into a painful rasp. The sight of the past is a heavy cloak over Marjory's normally sharp senses, weighed down all the more by the physical reality matching what she just witnessed … witnessed the cord pulling and — blood —

Her pale eyes fly wider open, pupils shrinking and blasting wide as the present-day storeroom floods around her. She tries to twist and fight, reaching for her bag at her side in blind self-preservation mode, digging to clasp her hand around aid within.

Outside the freezer, Amity lingers in silence, her flashlight shifting between the dark corners of the pub. But the silence has lasted a stitch longer than she's comfortable with. Silently, she shuffles back towards the storeroom. For a moment she stares at the object, considering it in silence. Her jaw tightens as determination strikes her. Perhaps Marjory will never forgive her, and she will lose acquaintance with the teen, but then, committing felonies should entitle her to some information.

Quietly, carefully, her fingers grasp the outside of the storeroom door, granting it a very slow, careful tug, hoping to maintain the silence of the pub.

A maze of darkness barely shaping boxes, high grated shelves, and sundry tavern items, greets Amity's view, the bare beam of her flashlight. From the door, the storeroom's empty— not empty, but void of breathing, human, life. But for the slant of the paneled rectangle window near the ceiling letting in a sliver of moonlight, it'd be pitch.

Pitch and— something wrong. There's a lack, of air, of openness; the atmosphere is tense and suspended.

Barred behind tall storage spaces, Marjory's struggle persists in near silence. Scrape or tiny shuffle here and there, but her little feet barely touch the ground; she's being lifted by an unearthly strength, effortlessly twisting her up from the bag that could give aid. "Are you alone," hisses a pitched, tremulous voice into her ear, inconsistent with the burly muscle suggested by action; inconsistent, too, with catching a slim, wisp of a girl— choking her. "Or did you bring it with you— " He's scared. Hauling back on her with the speed of desperate nerves.

She jerks backward into her captor, despite her every effort, her toes skidding. She can't breathe— even if she knew what the strange voice in her ear meant, how could she answer, when the air is being choked out of her? Marjory struggles. If anyone could see her face, they'd witness not only the shock in her eyes; they'd see the frustration making a pout of her distressed grimace. Great warrior she is, caught like a little bird. Determination runs fierce in the snared girl, however. Her hand makes it into her trusty bag, and a fist makes it around a weapon the length of a long dagger. In her convulsive, dizzied ploy to jab a sharp point behind her past her narrow waist with what's left of her might, hoping the figure that has her is as big as it feels, if not sounds, she looses a clatter of another metal weapon from her bag onto the floor.

The feelings of tension put Amity on edge. That fight or flight mechanism connected to every human being kicks in. Her pupils dilate. Her skin pales. Everything about her takes on that edge of fight. Her flashlight is moved, and used to navigate the boxes. Carefully, quietly, her steps in continued silence drive her forward. There's a grace in each movement, almost as if rehearsed, but in actuality learned from hours of X-Files reruns.

The inhuman force is no multi-tasker; he misses her grab until the weapon clatters, noise ringing out through the otherwise tensely still storeroom. He's shuffling them aside when the first dagger registers, plunging into the ribs of a figure, in truth, not massively wider than the little bird, herself. A grunt in her ear; the hot breath dashing over her black-clothed skin flares like burning, smells like it, too. The putrid tickle of sulfur odor as his grip spasms tighter then loosens. Her toes reach the floor.

A flutter of breaths fight for purchase in Marjory's throat. She stumbles eagerly in the direction of away as soon as her toes touch the floor — she careens. Right into a stack of boxes a mere foot away, rattling dozens of bottles, each a little warning bell to Amity. One, clear thought strikes through her light-headed, reeling brain; that which goads her willowy muscles into flexing, slicing her dagger through the air. The arc doesn't reach her attacker; no, it's not meant to; with a schriiick of gliding metal, a mechanism is released and the weapon frees to double the size. Legendary weapons, piecemeal and joined together, stolen and worked-over, by the hands of a sixteen year old girl. Younger than that, in the weapon's first incarnation.

Not a world or cry in her choked throat, Marjory whirls to face and try to see her attacker, standing stands crookedly, the sword-like blade seeming too heavy for her thin wrists and dizzied stance.

The clanging of metal speeds up each of Amity's steps, flashlight in hand. The falling of boxes also clues her into where to go and how to get there. The steps are still quiet, but far faster than before. There's also something in the air, conflict brewing, that, in many respects makes Amity feel stronger. She reaches into the pocket of her black pants and extracts a small switchblade (her 'travel insurance') as she runs. It's flipped upwards as she rounds another corner of boxes.

As Amity rounds into sight, Marjory's attacker's lurch forward turns into a stagger back, finicky mind changed with every flashing shadow and light in the illusion-filled storeroom. Plunged into the outside of his ribs, the dagger goes ignored; empty hands clench far out to his sides, stance similarly wide. "What do you want— ?" Growling exposes the glimmer of mutated teeth; something's not quite right, everything's a little too long, starting where his arched back rises like a spike between his shoulders. As he hunches, yet looms, a pain strikes through and muscles ripple as he tosses his head side to side, jaw widening— pulling skin— it flecks off, cracks, peels away to a cluster of black sinews utterly inhuman, speckled with the flashing sparks of tiny fires going off against exposed bones. Pieces of his face chunk away entirely as he gutturally shouts until, with effort, he straightens his gaze on the girls and skin recomposes— partially; bits here and there continue to not fit together. A broken puzzle.

What might've been a generic male face now ripples with wrongness. Black hair, slicked back from an era gone by: wife-beater. His entire right arm has been engulfed with a twisted, formless, tattoo.

What a sight for Amity to come upon, a monster and a girl holding an elaborate sword. Marjory's eyes flash at her before rushing back to the sparking shape of the part-creature, part-man. As much as his sparking, degrading appearance inspires her to just stare — aghast and curious, rising equally side-by-side — she lifts the weapon higher. Stronger. Her grip firms; she can wield the thing after all. "The truth!" she cries righteously. Her chin tips up, above a bruised throat, trying to make herself look important. "What are you?"

"What. The. Fuck." The words are whispered as Amity's eyes widen at the apparition. This was highly unexpected. For the twenty-something anyways. But her eyebrows draw together and determination takes over alongside a surge of adrenaline. The switchblade will do little against such a beast so the older woman thrusts it towards the man-thing while her eyes scan the area for any other potential weapons. Prepared she might not be, but resourceful, she is.

Another guttural noise— far less than pained— emits at the flick of Amity's switchblade; he's more annoyed than alarmed at the appearance of a second girly rodent. "Excuse me?!" He rumbles, lip curling to show blackened gums, "Barge into my pub. Ask me questions like you've earned it. Run off, little flies," a fleck of spittle he ejects to the left lights up like a firework before it sizzles and disappears on the floor, "Before what's owed here comes to roost."

The more she sees of the figure, the more grotesque and inhuman he seems — yet Marjory's confidence becomes bolstered. Shaken, as she follows the path of his sizzling spit — but puffed up again, she makes herself stand even taller, flooded to the brim with her a sense of righteousness that suddenly seems more important than logic. "I saw it," she barks, spoken like she's earned it, after all, her eyes brightening, anticipating the danger. Shifting to and fro on her feet, her gaze flicks over to Amity, acknowledging and pushing a slight barricade: stay back, be careful! "Something awful's happened here," Marjory says to the creature boldly. "Was it you. Did you cut through his throat. Did you kill that man!"

The strength in Amity's muscles grows even more as the beast emits its displeasure. Her focus centres further, and in a way, the adrenaline in her system is almost calming, keeping her in place rather than driving her away from danger. The silent warning from Marjory is heeded, however, as Amity's eyes scan the store room. All her sight catches are lots and lots of wooden crates of alcohol. Eyes remain trained on the beastie as she bends down and tugs a wooden board off of one of the many crates. It comes easily for her — either the crates aren't well made or Amity is far stronger than she looks…

"Awful things happen in plenty of places, little fly." With a fling of his head that cracks more bones than seems possible— the sound raining out like shots— he calms but minutely and the slice of his cheek refolds into itself, hiding a bit of that crackle and spark. Even in the dark, the snaking end of his tattoo appears to twist, as if clenching like a grip tighter to him. "I killed a man, just as you've killed of mine." Nostrils flare, "… A little." He sniffs several times, "You don't smell of him, though, so what do you care?"

The girl's eyes flare, conflicted between surprise, pride, and offense, a strange and conflicting concoction. The result: a lift of her eyebrows, a defiant 'what do you know?' With a significant effort, Marjory levels her gaze on the creature, fighting to focus there as she would a human or a godlier soul — or something that did not insist on calling her 'little fly'. "I wasn't looking for him," she explains, "But I happened to find him anyway so I'm going to ask, because there's something called right and wrong, and I have a vested interest in those who didn't die an honourable or deserved death— " She's talking bigger than herself. To make up for it, she takes a step forward, blade first. "Did he deserve it? Or did you just murder him because you're evil?"

Marjory's step forward has Amity's inching closer herself, despite the warning heeded only a bit ago. She maintains her distance, allowing Marjory to work at her mission despite it all. She's here as back up. To watch Marjory's back figuratively and literally. She holds up her plank a little higher, it's not a sword, but she's not weak. She can certainly do what she needs to.

A little snarl upturns the man's mouth, but it's nearly a carving of amusement. "The world's much bigger than those two choices, now, isn't it? Naive— " Knuckles whiten as he furls fingers over the hilt of the dagger sheathed in his side. With a grunt, he rips it out, "And not." A few drops of blood attempt to keep up the facade he long shed with part of the skin on his face; a few glimpses of glow still poke through as he regards them, gaze tilted and fingers playing along the blade. "Would it help you to know that I've seen the Beast, too?" Fire burns in and out of his eyes; a crack in his skin widens then settles as he composes. "Did you think you were the one who would bring it?" Calculating eyes scan the weapon then he disregards with a flick of his wrist to the side, where it crashes into several crates and clinks, out of sight, to the floor, buried.

Marjory plants and re-plants her feet, covering up a minute startle over the weapon's noisy landing. As fire burns in and out of his eyes, suspicion and deep, intent study burns in and out of hers. They narrow. "What Beast?" she demands, brow furrowing in frustration at the concept that he might know more than her. She just barely cuts short a glance to the little window. Another, toward Amity, is stopped before it reaches the lurking woman. "What do you know about me?"

"Uhhhhhhgh— " decidedly less ancient and terrible; the male seems like little more than that — a man — when rolling his head back to voice this wordless complaint. A shoulder eases down as he regards her again, "If you're going to play twenty questions, fly, at least have the decency of summoning me first."

"I won't!" exclaims Marjory, rather than admit she doesn't know what he means by summoning. A mythological encyclopedia runs through her head, her mind feeling like it's practically whirring with thought as she tries to pin down the hows and whys of this creature. This… "Demon," she declares solidly, full of triumphant knowing that quickly falters, in her eyes, with second-guessing. It's not quite an insult, but it's close, even her in her delicate voice, boldness stretched over youth. Her feet shift, ready for a flight she does not yet take. "I'm only asking more questions because you haven't given me a straight answer to any of the ones that came before!"

Cracks sound off like shots as he rolls his neck, stretching out the bones and muscles made of certainly not the same as the two in front of him. "Congratulations," he murmurs, "We are legion, etcetera, etcetera." Sizzling in his cheek eases when he tips his head that way, signaling the writhing of his black tattoo to dissolve into the peace of solid ink. Nose curling up, he sucks in three stiff breaths. "Look— god-kids. I follow the rules. We have no fight with your kind. But neither does anything say that when one of you asks a question, I'm obliged to give you shit. So, why don't you and your weird silent friend," three fingers whisk in the air back and forth towards Amity's direction, "go play hunter somewhere else. Find yourself a nice troll. Or a— you know what, there's a couple faeries across the street." Rolling a shoulder back, a twisting body follows as he begins to turn away from them, "Free tip: suckers bite."

Marjory's eyes go wide, and this time, they stay that way, stuck in twinkling disorientation. This was— this was supposed to give her answers! It was supposed to be a fight! She hunts for more meaning than being dismissed — little fly — by the demon, with his odd tattoo and his waving hand and turning body. She looks briefly like she's going to charge him sword-first, the second he's slightly away from them, but though she pops up on her toes, the young child of a god settles discontentedly on her heels.

She rushes off to the side, a quick minnow-motion, ducking to the ground— no harm; she's just grabbing the first slicey scrap of weaponry she dug out first, leave no man behind. She rushes to Amity, glowering at the figure as she does. "Let's just go!" High on attitude, as if giving the demon an insult over his pub food, leaving entirely on her own decision rather than being waved off— but her eyes are still wide, her gaze trying to push Amity out faster than the bump of her shoulder.

Amity's head cants to the side as she stares at the demon(?) in question, still on the alert. Her 'weird' silence finally breaks at Marjory's instructions, and she takes a step forward to the demon in question, her own fight or flight mechanism exerting its influence over her. "Alright, so you don't have to answer Marjory's questions— " she begins diplomatically. "— and your fight isn't with Marjory— " the 'god child' hmm. Amity's lips press together pensively as if considering everything in turn, "— but my friend is on a quest. And while I know little of its purpose, she's very serious about it." Her eyes blink hard as if considering every way to form the suggestion, "So. What would it take get some answers? Clearly threats don't work. You mentioned being summoned? Can I do that? I've never met… a demon(?)" the question actually seeps into her tone, "before."

On the same axis as he turned away from them, the demon whips back around, "Oh my Christian God, are you guys still here— ?" From where they'd rolled completely up and out of sight, his irises return, blinking drearily at Amity as she goes on. Near close, his arms brace in a considering cross along his chest. "You're half-human, aren't you?" Not a question; he's emphasizing his point. "Isn't that the joy of the thing? You want to go ahead and help a brother out…" Bare shoulders shrug. "That's your free will. You'll just want to, y'know, pick a good one, if you plan on being this annoying. We have a way of eating little girls," a flex of his jaw goes beyond human limits, extending the tendons and skin with a flash of teeth; yet, it seems a pure reflex, no present threat, "who don't incant correctly."

Marjory turns opposite on the same exis, jostling, to face the demon again, flush to Amity's side. She's a whirlwind of trapped momentum and indecision: she would've skittered off, albeit reluctantly, if it weren't for Amity's inquiry, but now she finds herself blinking in curiosity at the both of them. Despite the lack of threat in that jaw, that's where her gaze sticks, watching for a change in the tides. " — I doubt he knows anything about my quest," she states anyhow, but it's clear she's wondering all the same. She takes Amity's sleeve subtly.

Amity smirks outright at the notion. "Seems you've got your wires crossed. I am just me. Nothing more than the flesh and bones I was born with. Not a half-anything." Her teeth toy at her bottom lip as she stares at his highly unusual form. "And isn't what the joy of the thing? You speak in riddles. I've never incanted anything. My friend," she points back to Marjory, "here is far more versed in all of this than me. It's like reading a book in a book club and starting on page three while everyone else is at least on fifty." Her head cants to the side as her eyes twinkle with some unspoken wonder. "Help a sister out? Grant me some spoilers?" The tug at her sleeve is well noted, and draws Amity just a stitch closer to Marjory, "Hmmm. Maybe you're right…"

Arms fling up and then smack into the shelves on either side, rattling pub inventory down the storeroom, "That's right," growled out with a shake of his head, "Tell the demon who can smell your parentage back the last century that he's wrong. The arrogance on your types is just— ! " His tongue, rolling out, covered in unusual bumps, evokes the bleh sound of his expression. "Of course you haven't incanted anything— you just said you'd never met a demon!" At this point, he's nearly talking to himself, incredulously strangling the air in front of him with both wiry but highly muscles hands; veins nearly pop from his knuckles. "Meanwhile, all your friend is versed in is narrow fucking vision. This is not how I'm going to spend my last twenty-four hours before the Beast!" One hand flexes looser only to snap in a brutal point towards Amity, "You're not my sister, god-kind! More like a second co— usin— twice removed!" His free hand flutters dismissively in the air for the lost reference, "So I can still rip off your face and skull-fuck you," scars rip across his face, an earthquake that tears a hole in his cheek for the fire to show, "if you don't get out of my PUB— !"

A teeny-tiny squeak gets caught in Marjory's throat over the foul threats; she barely prevents her whole body from jumping. She hopes it went unnoticed, but expects this hell-creature's senses are unfortunately inclined to details — considering he can sniff out parentage! Contrary to nearly every action displayed thus far, her danger-sense is quite high: this time, she gives into it. This is the time. This is the time that go means go.

She clutches Amity's whole elbow, tugging as she whirls for the store-room door. "Let's— !"

There's something alluring about the demon's upset over the whole thing that spurs Amity's insides just a little more. In fact, there's an odd upturn of one side of her lips, a half-smile that feels too-natural on her china doll face. No doubt the adrenaline continues to spike in her body, but it wills her to goad him on, not to run away. Yet the tug at her elbow won't be denied, and her own personal mission to watch Marjory's back beckons she move.

She is drawn into an all out sprint for the door, lingering just a pace or two behind the younger girl's lead.

In front of Amity is a whirling dervish of hair, its fiery red diminished to a blood tone in the dark, as Marjory whips a look over her shoulder. Seeking past her, the demon is a blur now, cracks and sparks left behind; if he yells any further, it's just echoes in her head without words attached. She races through the unlit pub, pushing into the kitchen, striding for the back door they snuck into earlier, before any of this; before murder and demons and beasts and the shocks of knowledge; demon-summoning and god-children and who is Amity, really?

Not one thing is at the forefront of Marjory's mind — they're all spinning together, thought upon thought, as the Toronto night reaccepts them onto the sidewalk, where they spill out of the pub, dismissed trash, though the teenager does not hold her shoulders as such. She comes to a near-tripping halt and catches her poise. Reaching for Amity, she searches the street with her gaze. It's touched by the mysterious in the night, the buildings all old and full of history, the alleys gaping, the traffic ghost-town absent except for the distant hum of a streetcar closing in nearby, but a closer look, by most eyes, would find the every-day storefronts, the dully closed restaurants, the dirt of the sidewalk and find it nothing more, after all.

Marjory, however, looks at the building across the street and sees a potential fairy-land; she looks at the square scrap of a parking lot further down lit by a singular sodium-vapor lamp and sees refuge in which to discuss the divine.

She points, sharp. "There!" And runs.

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