<span style="font-style: italic">”Of course, come in.”</span><br/><br/>The woman’s gracious response was hardly unexpected, but even so a tinge of unsought emotion hiccupped her warning-resonance. Honestly. If someone in Levis’ state had wandered by<span style="font-style: italic">her</span>residence at this hour, she wouldn’t even have opened the door; or, at her very warmest, she would have slammed it gently in their face. Charlene was far too accommodating. The angel found it… distasteful. Still, she stepped through the doorframe and maintained her character role for the moment, allowing relief to sag her shoulders and tilt the corner of her mouth into a slightly wider (if no less pathetic) smile. The mortal scampered off to her kitchen (“off” might be a generous term- the entirety of the apartment could fit into the parlor of Levis’ Heaven-based domicile), still radiating warmth and good will.<br/><br/>The porcelain-skinned figure checked herself a bit as she perched on the couch, ankles instinctively crossing demurely. She really should just be grateful that her “friend” was not the sort who would make this a difficult job, apparently regardless of the circumstances. Levis did not think she could assume the same for many other people, at least ones that she knew and who were currently alive. She raised her hand, palm up, just in time for the stem of the wine glass to be shoved gracelessly between her fingers. Through the conversational questions and the fussing with the blanket (horrific thing, that blanket- the angel was eighty-five percent positive it would burn her skin with its tastelessness if she touched it), the thrum of the opposing force within the complex still radiated, completely undaunted by her warning.<br/><br/>Not only undaunted. It drew closer, and an added note of confidence that bordered on self-amusement slipped into it.<span style="font-style: italic">Well, well</span>Levis thought,<span style="font-style: italic">aren’t we feeling entitled and stupid tonight.</span><br/><br/>Unrevealing of anything internal, her eyes to the meniscus of the wine in the cheap glass, her pathetic vibe unchanged. Boyfriend, hm? An image of both Den and Columba sprang into her mind, their extreme contrast in mental presence broken only by the fact that they were both metaphorically holding her head underwater. Still, she could hardly say “my bosses”. Levis focused in on Columba. Hello, boyfriend.<br/><br/><span style="font-weight: bold">”Y-yeah,”</span>the stormy-eyed woman answered after what seemed like a moment of depressed recollection,<span style="font-weight: bold">”Men, right?”</span>she finished, reading Charlene’s comradely expression of womanly-opinion. She leaned her shoulder into the couch and slipped her low heels (left heel broken before entrance for effect), then pulled her legs under her in a display of warm relaxation. It had served her pretty well thus far in the “friendship”; loose mimicry combined with “tell her what she wants to hear”. For all her acting, however, the angel was acutely aware of the decreasing distance between the Level Nine and the demonic presence. True to theatrical commitment, she calmly took a sip of the pink wine.<span style="font-style: italic">Vile</span>stuff, truly. The woman must have procured it from the infected bladder of a homeless wretch. Still, Levis gave no sign of her tormented palate.<br/><br/>A soft knock, just two quick raps, echoed from the door. Levis jerked her head sharply to the entrance and uncurled her legs, as though casually concerned, but her eyes snapped with something more. The<span style="font-style: italic">gall</span>of that scum, to actually<span style="font-style: italic">approach</span>her subject, and<span style="font-style: italic">ignore</span>her threat. His harsh, non-melodic power signature was still well-fleshed with his own self-approval, too. Idiot.<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>"Men," Charlie agreed with a nod. It was decidedly odd to see Library-Levis this out of it. "Poor darlin'," she added, automatically scooting closer to the other woman and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. They might not be the best of friends, but Charlie genuinely cared about her. A chain of dumbass exes tended to make you more sensitive to when others were dumped.<br/><br/>The demanding-sounding knocks on her door startled her, and she gave Levis' shoulders a gentle squeeze. "Your fuckboy ex doesn't know you're here, does he?" She said in a low, almost threatening voice. She rose from the couch, striding purposefully towards the door. The visual that greeted her in the gap between door and door frame was a very pleasant surprise.<br/><br/>"Stewart!" She exclaimed, unable to conceal her delight of the fact that Hot Upstairs British Neighbor had chose to come knocking after all. Stewart chuckled. Fuckin' Library-Levis. Ugh, men - never understood the concept of timing. Charlie bit her lip and cast her eyes down. "I'm sorry, but this is kind of a bad time?" She whispered, almost apologetic. "I have a visitor."<br/><br/>------<br/><br/>“Oh, I apologize,” the demon said quickly, the accented syllables rolling easily, almost musically from his lips. Levis inwardly cringed. Even from the couch she could smell the sticky-sweet perfume of desire that emanated from his pores. The neighbor stood at least a head over Charlene, with rather swarthy tone of skin for his accent and well-sculpted muscles. A faint shadow of facial hair lined his square jaw and his hair seemed to naturally fall in a becoming, model-esque way about his ears. The angel swallowed back a snort of exasperation. Surely Charlene could see she was being manipulated? The “man” had the body and face of a world-class model, a voice to match, and –she couldn’t see it from here, but she was sure of it nonetheless- a pair of smoky, sultry grey eyes that promised his sensitivity and intelligence. And not<span style="font-style: italic">one inch</span>was real.<br/><br/>“But, if I could just borrow you for a moment – “ the statuesque figure put his foot against the bottom corner of the doorframe, smoothly and discreetly, “ – it would mean very much to me.” Levis was growling so loud in her head she was almost surprised Charlene didn’t hear it. Not that the woman seemed very perceptive. “It won’t take long,” he continued, his voice confident and smooth but with an overt tone of polite request, of true need that made the angel want to retch almost as much as the woman’s putrid vintage, “Please?” … and cue the puppy-eyes.<br/><br/>The angel stood quickly, finding a surface and depositing the glass and smoothing her blouse, as though uncomfortable. It was mostly just to be on her feet, should quick movement become necessary. From behind Charlene’s back, Levis shot a deadly, flat stare to her opposite; he did not return it, needing to remain focused on the mortal, but she was sure he felt it. Metaphorical hackles rose along both of the immortal spines, the air growing oppressive.<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>Oh, for fuck's sake.<br/><br/>"Sure, gimme a sec," Charlie replied with a smile, unable to refuse the beautiful grey eyes and the silky voice. Embarrassingly aware that she wasn't wearing any kind of clothing to cover the lower half of her body (save her panties) and that Stewart would be able to see her far too big behind and unflatteringly jiggling thighs if she turned, she decided to attempt to close the door before returning to Levis. To her surprise, she couldn't. A quick glance down revealed the reason why.<br/><br/>"Could you remove your foot from my door, Stewart?" She asked, no longer bothering with her half-whisper, but instead speaking loud and clear. Suspicion began to unfurl itself within her like a snake in tall grass. Sure, it might be important, but it was decidedly impolite to prevent her from refusing him entrance to her home - and Stewart had never been anything but polite on the few occasions she'd had a brief chatter with him in the hallway.<br/><br/>------<br/><br/>“Oh, of course, of course,” he responded, quick as before and simply gushing with genuine politeness. “It’ll be gone the moment we step into the – “<br/><br/>“She asked you,” Levis finally cut in, hearing the tone-change in Charlene’s voice and sensing a fault she could wedge a foothold of her own into to drive this garbage back, “to remove your foot.” The angel’s voice was distinctly harder and colder than the pathetic requests and ingratiating responses of only a few seconds ago, though not nearly as cold and metallic as she would have preferred it to be.<br/><br/>“ – and as I said, I would be happy to do so, once – “ he responded gently, lulling accent thick with unnatural seductiveness, his eyes barely flickering to his opposite before locking once more onto the mortal.<br/><br/>If he kept that eye contact, or kept talking to her, or maybe both, it wouldn’t be long before her tone changed right back to the half-in-love girl’s. Levis didn’t think she could be more disgusted with demon-kind than she already was, but this blatant use of demonic power, however understated and beneath-the-radar, grey-area-of-rules it was… it was downright nauseating. Demons had no decency, and the lower in the food chain they were, the less class they even pretended to have. She would have loved nothing more than to unleash a fist-sized bolt of her own medicine right into his smug, falsified face, but there was a delicate line to walk here. Charlene could only see so much before realizing something was wrong, but as long as Levis could pin all the wrong on the intruding demon, her own purpose could potentially remain uncompromised. It would have to stay… civil. “Once what?” she interrupted, her voice mimicking mortal suspicion.<br/><br/>At the end of the sentence, Levis’ eyes paled slightly behind Charlene’s back; to a casual observer, it might seem like the light had simply caught them a certain way. She took a step toward the door, and “Stewart” seemed as though he were noticing that there was another person and not simply a disembodied voice in the room. Her own angelic presence, thrumming hard enough to perhaps cause her foolish opposite the equivalent of a point-making headache, seemed to have disrupted his focus. His face darkened blatantly as he met her eyes; far too much, in the angel’s opinion. It was not the face a polite man shows a strange, disagreeable woman. He had no tact, no class, and no head for the delicate subterfuge of this game. Idiot demon. “Once we’ve… talked,” he finally answered, the honeyed voice faltering but still making an attempt at charm. He put a hand on the doorframe.<br/><br/><br/><br/>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/><br/><br/>At the top of the alleyway stairs, the first one appeared.<br/><br/>It was approximately seven feet tall, and unnaturally thin. The sloping shoulders and the gaunt body gave it the impression of having been stretched, the long, black garment giving it an almost ethereal air. Where the robe would have pooled about the feet of a human, it seemed to dissolve into a thick, black mist, matching the black that stretched past the ends of the upper limbs and the deep hood that covered the head. In short, any features besides “creepily tall and thin” were shrouded in flat black and tipped in heavy dark fog. As it appeared, a new octave to the harmony of immortal powers and soul energy did as well- for those sensitive to such things, it was a heavy weight beneath the rest, an ominous but not necessarily negative presence. A slash of flat black across the rainbow of auras, an all-encompassing dark block meant to strike information from the records the already-present wrote, a silence where another harmonizing voice should be.<br/><br/>A few of the mortals still left the alleyway. None of them spared a glance or a thought to the ominous shadow-figure, and as they topped the stairs their mortal bodies actually moved<span style="font-style: italic">through</span>the cloaked being. Wisps and tendrils of darkness caught at their clothes and hair as they did, unnoticed by them and quickly dissipating into the atmosphere. Their memories, still ripe with fresh images of the fried speakers and the white-hot sparks, dissolved as the shadows did. The darkness gently touched the surface of their minds, unobtrusive and silent, pulling the thoughts from the top layer as though statically attracting them. Any immortal would be able to see them, though only the competent would know they were there with no visual cue, and their memories were not susceptible to such invasive, erasing shadows. Still, these inhuman apparitions served a tangible purpose to the dead as much as the living.<br/><br/>Two more appeared on the tops of each building that constructed the alley, and a fourth to the opposite end. There was no approach to speak of. They were simply there now.<br/><br/>A final one appeared, this one actually seeming to be formed from air that had wafted from the shadow of the buildings and into the light. The body formed quickly from the outer limbs inward, and when it was finished it had a different shape to it than that of the others; the shoulders were broader, the limbs less elongated, the height less alien. The heavy darkness of its fellows still encompassed the ends of the arms and face, and mortals still passed the being with no notice. It stood against the wall that faced the entrance to the<span style="font-style: italic">Moon Cat</span>, and as the first few seconds passed, it casually leaned its upper back against the cool brick, black-robed arms crossing almost languidly.<br/><br/>---<br/><br/>“C-coffee?” Oliver blinked as though to clear the confusion from his eyes, though the tactic failed spectacularly. Cluelessness, so open as to be downright child-like, seemed written into every inch of him. It wasn’t every day two strangers, albeit very friendly and kind ones, inform you that people are “after you” and then invite you to coffee in a decidedly professional manner. He rubbed the back of his head a little awkwardly, but added, “I guess?” A little piece of him wasn’t sure that going to a café was the best course of action for someone with a hit out on him, but Vivienne radiated self-assuredness and confidence, and her demon… friend? He had said they were “associates”… had been very helpful. Seemingly immune to the altered and now very abrupt tone of her voice, he smiled at her again with the same openness.<br/><br/>“Is… is there a place you prefer?” He tilted his head, seeming to have forgotten about the three figures on the floor, his eyes flicking innocently from the demon and back to the red-head. He did know of a café that wasn’t far (he had performed there a few times and was friends with one of the baristas), but Vivienne had specifically mentioned somewhere “slightly cleaner” and Oliver wasn’t sure that particular café met those standards.<br/><br/><br/><br/>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br/><br/><br/><br/>Empty.<br/><br/>Nothing.<br/><br/>Always, always nothing.<br/><br/>It wasn’t just quiet. Even in the quiet, there was<span style="font-style: italic">something</span>. There would be the mental echoes, scents, traces that yet lingered like small signatures all over the inside of her skull. Even when they were old and faded, the quiet itself was something.<br/><br/>But this… this wasn’t that. This was a bleak, empty silence. There was no promise here, no presence, no footprints, no light at the end of a path that said even though what you sought was far away, it<span style="font-style: italic">was</span>there. It wasn’t a shadow, a blanket of darkness over her consciousness. The shadow would have been something. It was just… empty, silent, void.<br/><br/>Columba’s eyes flickered open, her thick lashes fluttering as the sky blue irises once more caught the light. Her normally tempestuous expression was calm for once, as she sat cross-legged in her garden- the dim light, though it came from nothing, reflected an evening intensity and the gentle breeze that kissed her face was the perfect amount of coolness. The garden itself was a testament to the constant fair “weather”: the stalks of lavender, constantly wreathed in purple blossoms and making the air awash in the characteristic scent reached high above their bases, pastel pink gladioluses dotting the sea of light violet. White lilac blossoms encircled several patches, weaving their own sweet scent through the atmosphere, the flowering reed and everlasting blossoms winding in and around the stalks in an almost vine-like manner as they strove for notice. Three ash trees, all of them more than six times the height of an average male and bursting with light, bright leaves, stood in a rough triangle around Columba’s spot, the heady blossoms encasing them around the lower portion of their trunks like a blanket of scent and color.<br/><br/>She stood, the silken folds of her dress sliding easily to accommodate. Her calm face darkened a shade, the royal brow forming a crease and rose-pink lips quirking down at the corners. She did not care for this. Not the silence; the silence she had gotten used to, and had assumed it would always be. What she did not care for was this horrid<span style="font-style: italic">pining</span>, all this waiting for a change that would not come. A waste of time, and nothing more. If only she could stop this nonsense.<br/><br/>And yet, somehow, the Seraphim found herself in the garden again. It happened every fifty years or so. A quiet moment would settle over her shoulders, and the bare feet would softly take her where they wished, and before she knew it another two or three years would have gone by with her having gained nothing for it but the thick scent of lavender in her hair. It was folly. She did not even care for the smell of lavender. The ache of initial loss had been long since twisted into a knot of practicality and the demand of her position, something that had been given an opportunity to grow and thrive as her fellows removed themselves more and more. Even so, she knew that in another fifty years…<br/><br/>A stubborn snort broke the silence of the garden and she turned curtly on her heel, as though to show decisiveness to the ash tree leaves and flowering reed. In only three steps but any amount of distance away, she stepped into her domain. It was open, as many angelic domiciles, though far more refined. Grass that was obviously healthy but somehow a demure shade of green, understated and blue-tinted, softly caressed her bare feet. Marble pillars, shades of coral pink and cream with nary a crack or fault to be seen stretched high into the ether, their diameter only a few times her own body and their spacing a loose circular pattern. The “thicket” (she called it so, an affectionate if derogatory nickname) seemed to have no boundaries, and yet was clearly bordered. Chairs, of varying size and length but all with plush, silken materials, dotted the grass, some clustered fetchingly and others the lone bit of furniture in a sea of green. The metal, a universal pale gold, blended seamlessly with the whites and creams of the fabrics. Tables of a matching material twisted elegantly in various places, their own intricate engravings so lifelike as to be more mortal than the owner. Pitchers, glasses and trays all similarly engraved from the most delicate and finest of crystal occasionally graced a tabletop, as well as a book or flower vase here or there. Soft, sparkling, tiny pale lights dotted the air of the clearing just above average-height level, like stationary white firefly glows. A few tapestries and rugs draped over the backs of chairs, or spread across the velvet terrain in bursts of vivid color. It seemed empty, save for the sleeping cat curled up on one of the satin-lined armchairs; its lustrous white coat blended well with the décor, and only the occasional twitch of an ear could stop an eye from passing over it completely.<br/><br/>The serene, breathtaking environment did nothing to alleviate her mood. Her face still creased in stubborn discontent, Columba strode gracelessly to a lounge chair large enough for three adult men and flopped onto it like a sullen teenager, her long hair spilling over the edge and pooling into the grass. Her fingertips barely reached the ground, the tips of the fronds tickling them as she lay face-down in the unappreciated silken comfort.<br/><br/>When she wasn’t wasting time searching for something that she would not find, Columba believed herself to be a fine Seraphim. She monitored those under her command carefully and often made trips to the mortal scope; not to procure souls, of course, but rather to assess her legion and make changes when necessary. She did not believe, as some of her fellows did, in letting them have free rein and only making an appearance when it was time to mete out a punishment for unsatisfactory work. In her legion, there<span style="font-style: italic">wasn’t</span>unsatisfactory work. She made sure of it.<br/><br/>So why, why,<span style="font-style: italic">why</span>did Heaven have fewer souls than ever?<br/><br/>Frustrated, a tiny, distinctly feminine snarl broke from her lips, muffled by the down-feather cushion.<br/><br/>-------<br/><br/>Elliot trotted along in the shade of massive ash trees, paying little heed to their dazzling colors as he moved closer to his destination. He shrugged impulsively, flexing massive shoulders atop a massive frame as he entered the domicile of the person he was seeking.<br/><br/>He moved quickly past pillars of marble and chairs of intricate design without spending much time dwelling on the craftsmanship; he was only there for one reason, and that was to locate his mistress. She had been in quite an unpleasant state of mind upon their last encounter, long ago as it was, however it had begun to be rather difficult to differentiate the foul moods from the norm. Not that he minded, though. His loyalty was absolute. He also didn’t exactly mind the break he had, but all things had to end at some point.<br/><br/>He shook his head slightly, feeling the movement of the disheveled bundle of hair at the nape of his neck as the Seraphim came into view, laying face-down on a chair large enough to comfortably seat about six people her size. He walked over with a smile, waiting for several seconds in silence before finally clearing his throat and revealing himself to what would undoubtedly be a surge of animosity that belied the size of its wielder.<br/><br/>"Ahem… Madam? Can I be of service?"<br/>-----<br/><br/>“You know what?” came the immediate response, trampling over the last few letters of his sentence and still muffled by the decadent pillow. A tense, momentary silence followed as the Seraphim lay still, but when she did spring up it was cobra-quick similarly aggressive. She whipped around to face the compliant behemoth of an angel, long tendrils of silken hair snapping around her shoulders but failing to cover her face, as though shying away from the hot words. “Yes, Elliot.<span style="font-style: italic">Yes</span>. You can stop<span style="font-style: italic">hovering</span>over me. Your blasted shadow makes everything so dark and depressing.” She wasn’t sure if he was actually casting a shadow, but it hardly mattered.<br/><br/>Her wide blue eyes cracked as they lit on her absorbent manservant. To illustrate her displeasure Columba quickly stood and turned on her heel, taking a few swift steps away from the giant, one hand exasperatedly on her hip and the other gesticulating sharply in the air about her face. Some of the floating lights, hovering just a bit too low, dodged fervently away from the child-like appendage. “And you can tell me,” she continued, in a louder but less venomous voice, “why in<span style="font-style: italic">Creation</span>you let me stay in that garden for<span style="font-style: italic">three years</span>? I should have been sought out – well – well… before<span style="font-style: italic">now</span>!”<br/><br/>She crossed her arms accusingly, staring up into the taller figure’s face, her head tilted almost entirely back. The Seraphic spitfire wasn’t entirely sure she had ever told him to seek her out in meditation at all (in fact, she may have specifically told him the opposite) let alone when to do so, but again, it hardly mattered.<br/><br/>------<br/><br/>The angel took a step back to move his shadow clear of her (there was no actual shadow there, but he humored her as always) and watched as she began moving away from him, jabbing at the air around her. As she asked him why he'd taken so long to come to her, the man shrugged, his light brown eyes remaining rather blank as he considered how best to respond to the query without insulting his boss.<br/><br/>"Well… you told me you would take my wings off my back and beat me with them if I disturbed you," he answered truthfully, ignoring the absurdity of a woman her size actually harming him through physical force. "I waited for as long as I thought was wise, Madam, and not a moment longer."<br/><br/>A silence hung for a moment, before without warning or conscious thought his mouth opened once more.<br/><br/>"You crazy bitch."<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">What did you</span>- ?!”<br/><br/>With all the speed and precision of a viper, Columba reached up (fully extending her arm and on tip-toes) and shoved her index finger past Elliot’s lips to hook roughly into his right cheek, yanking him down to her level with a strength that belied her dainty limbs. Staring into his eyes, with the tips of their noses only two inches apart, the volume of her voice remained even with her initial berating. “This ‘crazy bitch’ can have you slung into the rankest pits of the mortal world to rot until you’re even more of a<span style="font-style: italic">nothing</span>than you are now, you<span style="font-style: italic">clumsy</span>,” she sputtered a bit, the tops of her cheeks flushing pale red, “you – you<span style="font-style: italic">oafish</span>– “<br/><br/>Seeming unable to come up with a suitably soul-crushing insult, she merely shoved his face away and withdrew her hand (fully aware that her fingernail had scraped along the inside of his face) and gave a very feminine snarl of frustration. “I don’t have<span style="font-style: italic">time</span>for this!” she spat after a moment, spinning on her heel once more and striding purposefully away from him.<br/><br/>She needed to get back to work. Her legion had been given a reprieve from her exacting and totally-justified, appropriate judgments, but no doubt they had grown lax in her absence –she shot an accusing glare over her shoulder- and would need to be brought back into line. In three steps, she had left her personal domain and entered what looked to be a very old, flawlessly-maintained library. The bookshelves reached farther upward than anyone could ever see, and though they were of varying color and height and thickness, none of them had any script on the spines. In the center of the dark wooden shelves stood a matching podium, with a single, closed tome resting on it. The Seraphim approached her ledger, her steps intentionally making it clear that she was still seething.<br/><br/>-----<br/><br/>The Seraphim's finger found its way into Elliot's mouth, and the first thing he noticed (aside from the vague taste of grass and salt on his tongue) was that she'd found an extra inch or two of height that he didn't know she possessed. Even on her toes and fully extended, it seemed highly unlikely, yet in her rage she'd managed to pull it off.<br/><br/>He felt her tugging, and with a mental shrug of resignation he quickly lowered his head until the pulling stopped, allowing her to properly convey her fury without any further aggravation on his account. He hadn't meant to say it, of course - sometimes his thoughts just came out, and though Columba knew he had no control over it the knowledge never stopped her from unleashing her rage in response to the transgression on every occasion. He didn't mind, though, taking it all stoically as was his custom.<br/><br/>The threat she delivered glanced off of him without making an impression (she wouldn't get rid of him and they both knew it), and the attempt at an insult garnered a similar reaction; the scraping in his cheek brought forth the shadow of a wince, however, and when she stormed off he waited the customary five seconds before following in her wake.<br/><br/>If she had need of him, he knew it was in his best interests to be close by.