Flood
Molly receives a text message early in the evening
"I've been told I should check in on your health."
And a moment later the screen lights up again and if sounds were made they're made again, even if it's just a vibration wherever she stashes the device, notifying her of an ensuing message.
"That might sound like you've been threatened. You haven't been. How are you feeling?"
Molly Toombs
The second text was a blessed thing. The first one had initially confused Molly, who that evening was out on her balcony practicing letting either animal be out there with her, but only on the condition that the little assholes remain on leashes (yes, the cat too, and Lucy hated that). The confusion had passed quickly to be taken over by worry, but the worry didn't have time to form actual cohesive thoughts or imagined scenarios before the second text came and clarified.
The glass of wine she'd been sipping was set on the small table beside her chair so she could respond:
"Physically well, thank you. Rattled otherwise, there are rumors. Who told you to check in?"
Flood
"Someone who considers me a concerned party," Flood returns, the words appearing on her screen just below the message she'd just sent. All of his replies are prompt and he doesn't seem to loaf about hitting send or considering them. It's a perfect translation of his mannerisms from speech to text.
"I love rumors," a moment later.
"Shall we meet?"
All in one message, all grouped into one bubble that leaves her with a decision to make, and who knows how close Flood is to that little patch of downtown where he might think she would be whether she's at work or at home or somewhere near the corner that is the closest she'd ever let him get to the latter.
Molly Toombs
"I know that you do."
The answer wasn't quick enough to beat the question about meeting up, but it was about as prompt as it could be reasonably. He was quick to text, and she was being not equally fast, but at least responding within 10-20 seconds as an average so far. Probably just how long it took her to type with thumbs.
"I'm free tonight, where do you suggest?"
Flood
Molly asks for a suggestion and one comes without much waiting on her part.
"I still haven't seen your place."
It's matter of fact and still manages to carry so much weight, a few words heavily burdened by their implication, but she had asked.
Molly Toombs
This text takes longer to write. Flood probably expected that, though. Molly was protective of whatever gossamer veil of security she could still hold on to, and very deliberate when she felt like her next words would have a lot of impact. Because of course this answer would, if any.
About a minute passes before whatever tone his phone has to offer chimes for him.
It's an address, complete with apartment number and apartment building name, neatly written and lined as though it would go on an envelope.
Soon to follow, another message:
"I suppose it's about time for that leap of faith, isn't it."
Flood
"Do you think I would catch you?" Flood returns with this and a moment later, "I'll be there within the hour."
The Lasombra may or may not have his reasons for not giving an exact time of arrival. Is it possible this is a leap that goes both ways? Trusting her to know where he will be within a certain amount of time, and him coming to a woman whose friend had said he would kill him if he could?
Wasn't that man a Marine? Wasn't that man a trained killer of men?
At least Flood is already dead and no longer just a man. Self-preservation and self-amusement are constantly vying within him and this may be the fallout of one of those battles.
Flood goes to that address and maybe she can see him approaching from the balcony? He comes on foot with the same sure strides she had always seen him take. Around the corner to her block and toward her building and through into the front lobby, ringing up or having whatever attendant (living or otherwise) do the ringing to let him in until he's rapping his knuckles against her front door.
Molly Toombs
To those texts, there was no response. He would just have to suppose on whether Molly trusted him enough to catch her.
She trusted him enough with an address, anyways.
She wasn't out on the balcony when Flood's long-legged walk takes him to the building. It's set on the corner of two streets that didn't see very much traffic but had several cars parked along the curb. It was a neighborhood of apartment buildings and old houses leased into offices. The Brookstone Apartments, Molly's building, was a stout five-story structure made of brick, with twin lines of balconies of painted white wood on either side of the building's face. There was one front door, steps leading up to it, and an awning overtop. To the right of the front door, a row of buzzers. When he pushed Molly's, she'd buzz him in with no voice over the intercom.
There are elevators, and they are quite old. There are safer looking stairs to the left. Molly lives on the fourth floor, and when Flood finally knocks on the door she opens it in the span of someone walking across the room would be.
Molly herself was wearing a casually cut dress of navy blue with small white polka dots, a dark green cardigan over top, unbuttoned with sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Hair up, neatly made. Molly was a girl that liked to be presentable. She'd smile, but he could already tell that she was on edge. Nervous. This was the lion in her den, after all. All the same, she'd invite him in.
"You're welcome to get comfortable." She did not offer him a drink, but she did close the door after he was within the place and step aside for him to choose between kitchen (immediately within the front door) or the living room (beyond it). Or, perhaps, the balcony that was separated only by a storm door, the other left ajar.
Flood
Flood steps past her with a smile and ventures on deeper than the kitchen.
Whether it's out of some inherent distance from that place of conventional sustenance, inquisitiveness regarding where Molly lives, or ownership of the area he inhabits manifesting in taking up ground... That's up to interpretation. Molly makes him feel welcome, if only with her words, and he makes himself so.
That means Flood settles into her living room.
If there is a single chair? A recliner? Flood will stand close to it. If there is only a couch, someplace that must be shared, it is where he will stand instead. In any case he waits for her to join him and begin to take her own seat before he takes one.
Flood's suit fits like a glove. It's a thin wool in a very light grey like shark's skin. His white linen shirt is pressed and the tie is an off white silk like an elephant ivory with the lightest sheen to it. When (if) he sits the hem of his pant legs rise to show navy blue socks that compliment the brown brogue of his dress shoes. He crosses a leg over the other. His hands fold together in his lap, though the way his elbows find comfortable surfaces or nooks he still seems to fill in the space around him.
Maybe Flood is aware he's a strange kind of guest to accommodate. Is there anything she could off him in the way of hospitality other than the seat he takes upon his arrival? He fills the silence where niceties should be.
"Thank you for having me," not a nicety, not with the trust it took for her to give him this address and open that door.
"Kali said you might need checking in on after some woman made her sick. She wasn't sure if it might be contagious. Why might she have been concerned?" He looks her over for signs of damage, and in the way of sentiments go, his own concern might compliment his curiosity. He'd come around her when she might have been exposed to a plague that could effect his kind. At the same time it's apparent he wants to know more about their encounter.
Molly Toombs
The building was older, built around 1910 or somewhere in that era. It has since been remodeled and updated all throughout, to keep up with the demands and needs of living in the modern era, but vestiges of its origin remained. There were areas of exposed brick on the walls, in corners here and there. The kitchen was along the left wall, with an island to separate it from the entrance. A small dining table was set up to the right, but only with wo chairs and an untouched looking decorative piece in the center. The stools at the bar were probably used more often.
It was a straight shot back into the living room from the door. Here there was a couch and a pair of chairs, mis-matched but all with their own classic appeal. Flood selected one of the chairs, and Molly followed after him to sit on the couch instead, selecting the center cushion. The hem of the skirt was just above the knee, so she sat with her knees together and her feet (in stockings, she wasn't wearing shoes inside) on the floor. His hands settled in his lap, and hers did the same.
The dog and cat were nowhere in sight, but from his vantage point in the chair Flood would spy a few more doors-- logically, they would be a broom closet, a bathroom, and a bedroom each. She'd locked the animals up in the bedroom, trusting that door to remain firmly closed and untouched.
There was a pleasant thanks from the man for having him, and Molly nodded her head lightly in answer to it, but sensed that he would be leading on to say more. When he did, she listened, and flexed a bit of a frown between her eyebrows when he'd mentioned that Kali was ill. The look-over that Flood gave the woman would yield him easy results: she was in good health. Molly had maintained her healthy build and general flush of health to her skin. There were no injuries or boils or signs of damage to note. For someone with habits as reckless as hers, she maintained her well being quite reliably.
"Proximity," was Molly's simple answer to Flood's inquiry about Kali's concern. "I've been fine, though. Is... ah, Kali going to be well?"
Flood
"I haven't checked in with her," Flood answers.
"For obvious reasons," the Lasombra clarifies.
And if they aren't obvious enough? Well, Flood doesn't adjust himself where he sits, but he rights his head. His eyes find hers and he focuses on her being rather than her form. Her wellness rather than her wholeness.
"Seeing for myself would be exposing myself, and asking by indirect means would be working on the false assumption she'd let me know if she was unwell. We're not friends. We're acquaintances with a temporary understanding," shedding light on some of the intricacies of his relationship with the Ravnos.
One of those words leads to another thought, and he follows it with more words, "She'd said my friend Molly might be hurt. It's been some time since I've had a friend. Do I now?" And all through it that poker face remains set and doesn't waver. It's only curiosity. It's disconnected from his unbeating heart and from his uncaring soul, if he even still has one somewhere behind those clover green eyes.
Molly Toombs
Flood explained how his relationship with Kali worked, clarified that they were not friends. Their relationship was a 'temporary understanding' at best, professional but probably not necessarily pleasant or cordial. Molly's expression and the small nod of her head expressed understanding, but he was still speaking so she continued to listen.
The question that he posed, if he had her friendship or not, was met with a small surprised raise of eyebrows. She used to pencil them dark, Flood would remember, back when her hair was the same. She had in the past few months returned to red, though, and along with the brows were less severe. The return to her roots was a good decision, it warmed her complexion back up nicely.
"I would say so," Molly said. She wasn't slow to answer, didn't have to think about it or consider the repercussions. It was as though she assumed this was something they'd silently concluded already. She re-positioned herself where she sat on the couch, crossed her left leg over her right (which angled her more toward Flood and his chair rather than away from it). Sat straight rather than settled back into the dark brown leather of the couch.
"I would hope I could say the same for you." She smiled, the first time really since he'd walked in, though the expression was small, did not cover her face entirely. "Kali and hers seem to think as much anyways."
Flood
"What do they call the friend of my friend who
wants me dead? Oh. That's right," a pause for effect, now that she's
positioning herself to truly face him, and then he continues:
"Nathan," saying the name in a simple and unattached sort of way.
"That's
his name. How is Nathan? Have you heard from that other gentleman,
Kragen, who was after you as well?" A beat before he clarifies.
"See,
I've been reading all sorts of things in the paper about that
organization he works with, some of them written by Nathan, and I can't
help but worry what might come of that," and he's already crossed his
legs, so what else is he to do?
What else but keep talking.
"And they say I'm dangerous. Most of the people I kill deserve it."
He
places an elbow on the arm of the chair and leans forward a bit, as if
he's interested in not only how Molly will answer his next question, but
how she might react to it.
"Do you worry about all these friends
you have, Molly? Do you worry for yourself? I can't imagine what goes on
inside that red head of yours," and it doesn't sound like he's taunting
her. In fact he sounds almost envious of the idea. Of knowing how she
works. He falls silent to let her answer some, all, or none of the
questions he has posed.
Molly Toombs
Molly did an
admirable job of continuing to look calm and collected while Flood laid
his questions out for her one by one. She didn't seem overwhelmed by
the topics queuing up for her to address, nor did she seem to be
sweating under the bright interrogation lamp at all. Flood has known
Molly long enough, seen enough of her to recognize traits to her. The
undying thirst for the unknown was chief among them, but he knew she was
a cool-headed thing too. The worst he's seen her at is gray faced and
shaking in the hands, but this was after witnessing a gruesome display
of gore and death and magic. She hadn't wept or yelled or fainted or
screamed or vomited. She was strong of will and resolve and wit.
She'd
watched him while he spoke, expression committed to remaining neutral.
When he'd leaned forward to inquire about her worries and make it clear
from how he looked at her, how he was angling his tall body in toward
her, that he was quite curious to know what made her tick. Her fingers
were worrying the skirt of her dress in small motions, and this was the
only visible outlet for the worry that she couldn't express anyplace
else.
"I worry all the time," she said, and though the words were
matter-of-fact the tone of voice was sad and thoughtful. "About these
friends as much as I do for them. Some more than others." She was
committed to the word 'friend', though. That may be telling. "You
already know that I worry for myself," she added, and cut a glance to
him with cool and intelligent blue eyes that was almost admonishing but
still restrained. It, like everything else she did around Flood or with
him, was laced with caution. She was always careful where she steped,
even when finding lines and testing boundaries she was cautious.
As for the rest...
"I
have a pretty good idea of the Bad News that Kingsmith's organization
brings with it. I've declined the offer to 'run off' with him, so to
speak, and he's understanding of it. Seems to be anyways." She
shrugged her shoulders and quieted, leaving the floor to Flood.
Neglecting to answer his inquiries about Nathan Marszalek.
Perhaps she could just feign forgetfulness.
Flood
Molly
can and she will, or at least she seems to, and there had been so many
things that he had addressed. Maybe the sheer distance of his final
question from those regarding Nathan could explain her forgetfulness.
No.
It's not admonishment. Sharp jade eyes are as cool as his skin and they
have a similar intellect. It isn't admonishing, no, but it shows he
notices her oversight.
"That gentleman is an unknown variable.
He's also very difficult to offer a helping hand to. It's probably for
the best you don't get involved with him. There are easier friends to
have that don't put you at risk. He's being scrutinized. You don't want
yourself under that same microscope," Flood finishes.
Oh, had he
forgotten to mention who he's talking about? Molly is no doubt smart
enough to tell he's talking Kragen-things, instead of Nathan-things.
"He's less a font of information and more a leaking gas tank," shaking his head.
"Speaking
of information and being informed. Where are you at? Have you been
looking in dark corners? What do you think you've figured out so far."
It's probing. He doesn't lean in any more than he already has, but his
eyes do sharpen, and his ears are ready to listen to her answers.
Molly Toombs
What
he had to say about Kragen was met with a nodding of Molly's head. She
wasn't arguing any of those points with him, nor was she planning to
make any attempt to defend whatever odd relationship she may have with
the rogue Ghoul. She seemed content to simply agree with the words of
caution that Flood had to give, to accept them. As for whether she
would take them to heart or not remains to be seen.
He'd compared
Kragen to a leaking gas tank of information, and Molly raised her
eyebrows a little. "A font or a leak, it's still information to be
had. I just need to be sure I'm far enough away when the gas leak turns
to its inevitable explosion."
But, speaking of information...
Flood was curious to know what she'd gathered. Molly's lips curved a
little at the corners, the ghost of a smile having flitted its way into
being. Something about the fact that he was rooting around to figure
out how much she knew had struck a humorous nerve within the woman.
She
answered all the same. "That's an incredibly broad question to ask,
Flood." Well? It was. She continued on, though, apparently willing to
answer it to some degree or another at least. "I've been looking and
listening, yes." She shifted a little on the couch, but did not alter
her position by much. "I know that there's more to your world than just
the Church and the State. There's other factions... Bloodlines?" She
was looking for the right word, and the upward lift of question at the
end of the one she went with seemed to beg for confirmation from the man
who would know the answer. Even so, she would continue.
"I've
been hearing other things, though. More interesting things." The way
that she looked at Flood was pointed-- like she was swinging the light
around and shining it on him instead, turning the flow of questions
about. "Something pertaining to a slumbering thing that's waking up?
And that some of you have been waking up early too. I've been picking
up that neither of these things are very good at all for you all."
Flood
"The
Sabbat, the Camarilla, and the clans," Flood answers without blinking,
though the slowness with which he pronounces these words says it
could've have come without thinking.
Molly's lilt rises like the curve of a question mark and it's like a key that unlocks a vault.
"The
Sabbat, like myself, could be analogous to the church you've been told
about. The Camarilla, like Kali, could be considered the state in that
they are more of a governing body in comparison. They publicly don't
like to consider the possibility things more powerful and far older than
themselves or human history could awaken," and there's a rising of his
chest, a quiet sort of amusement, before he continues.
"This is
exceedingly difficult to rectify with the facts as they stand and the
events unfolding. We, on the other hand, labor under the certainty that
unless stopped these things will awaken and an event some of us call
Gehenna," this word pronounced with the shape of a foreign tongue.
"There's meaning to that word, in its origin among the living, that I'll
leave you to explore," before he continues again.
"The clans are
lines of blood that go back to who we know as the first amongst us,
Caine, and as God laid a curse upon him, he laid a curse upon each
childe his childer sired, after they rose up to kill his progeny. That
is the source of these bloodlines. Each is different in how their blood
makes them the vampires they are," and with that he takes pause.
Again
that look of cool intellect. If his method of teaching is in any way
Socratic, the way his own eyebrow now hooks means he's keen to see what
question she will ask to steer the conversation next.
Molly Toombs
There
is a coffee table that sits a comfortable distance in front of the
couch. There's a couple of books piled up near the center of it-- if
Flood were curious enough to glance at spines and visible covers he'd
soon discover that these are all books of the occult, matters of the
'unknown'. Of the three books, two are focused on the mythology of
'dark magic' and 'blood rites' and things of this nature. The third is a
study of what lies beyond the realm of life in general.
As Flood
began to give his lesson, Molly's voice fell silent and her ears did the
work instead. She listened carefully, hung to Flood's words like they
were the rope keeping her from falling off a cliff face. She uncrossed
her legs and leaned forward, forearms settling on her knees to do so.
The word Gehenna
had her raising her eyebrows and put her into motion-- not far, though,
she didn't stand or anything. Rather, she reached into her pocket for
her cellphone and quickly tapped away on it before putting it away
again. She made no effort to mask what she was doing, tipped her phone
so that he could at least glimpse the screen if not see it clearly. She
was typing the word down in some notepad application or another to save
for later. It was unfamiliar, not English from the sound of it, and
she didn't want to forget it or go chasing the concept with an incorrect
word that she may try to summon from memory later.
The phone was
quickly tucked back into the pocket of her cardigan, and she then laced
her fingers together and rested her hands at her knees. Still leaned
forward over her own legs thoughtlessly, comfortable in this pose for
now.
"I was told that these bloodlines make you all different. It
makes some able to take bullets like they're nothing. Makes others
impossibly fast." A pause, and a raised eyebrow acted as a precursor to
the next. "Grants you the ability to pull shadows."
"Have you been having trouble with your sleep? What do you make of it?"
Flood
"You're
going to ask me if I've been sleeping well?" He clicks his tongue
across the roof of his mouth and almost shakes his head, but then he
smiles. "It's a good question. It's not the best, but it's not the
worst. There are verses in our holy texts that say the moon will turn to
blood and the sun will go dark. I do not know if these things are
related, the fact we awaken earlier and are awake closer to the sun
rising, but it's hard to argue they aren't," he finishes.
And then he goes on. Goes back. Shakes his head first, and then he corrects her.
"It gives us strengths and
it gives us our weaknesses, our blood, what it makes us. Some are mad,
other impassioned, and others burn more readily in the light. Some are
drawn to things of beauty, stunned by them, and others become things
that are impossibly ugly. Some only feed on certain castes and others
are compelled by a certain vices. My clan gave up its reflection. We
are the source of that wives' tale of vampires casting no reflection,"
and his eyes had strayed, to her books, around her room, and then to
where she'd tucked away her phone.
"It makes us a liability to the
Camarilla's masquerade, the act they put on, the way they hide from the
humans. That," a finger pointing to where she had put her phone. "That
word, when you look into its context, along with all I'm telling you
now? Makes you a liability as well. You breathe and you know and that is
enough for them to want to either snuff you out," a thumb jutting out
and pressed down hard on his knee where it bends over his other leg, "or
wrap you around their finger," his hand turned up and fingers open then
closing as if around a possessed object.
"There are clans and
their are bloodlines, lineages, those who made those who make and who
made them, and it is like a family, in that for some of us who we are is
dictated by how our ancestors in the blood shaped their childer and so
on. Some do not cultivate. Some are simply made and exist and that is
all they have of their own lineage. I am not one of those. My blood has
history to it. My blood has context," looking from the fist his hand has
become and over to her again.
Molly Toombs
The
tongue clucking was ignored. She didn't believe that was her only
question to ask, anyways. She's done this dance with Flood a few
times. He was enjoying seeing where she was going, how deep down the
rabbit hole this particular Alice could fall and journey before she ate
the wrong mushroom, so to speak. She hasn't had trouble with him
refusing to answer questions thus far. This was being evidenced now.
Again,
Molly sat and listened. The fact that she now leaned forward over her
legs, spine curved to accommodate the fact that she was still pushing
her head and chest and shoulders upward rather than letting them hang
forward as well, made her look all the more like a student getting
tutoring from her professor.
Her eyes dropped to his hand when he
held out out, observed as thin fingers curled to form a cold fist. Her
eyes lifted from it to meet his when he'd concluded-- a fine show of
trust when dealing with vampires.
"I've heard of the weaknesses
too. All in all, I'm pretty sure I could think of worse things than a
missing reflection." Although she has spent time in libraries, leaned
over books and browsing obscure corners of the internet in search of
information that could help her locate a reflection lost-- stolen away
by some possibly-feminine entity on the other side of a mirror. Trying
to find a way after so that she could reclaim the thing lost and return
it to its owner. But this was an adventure that Flood was not keen to.
It was one of many things she kept close to her chest.
For her
next subject, she smiled, and the expression was more full than it had
been all night. "I was a liability before you told me any of that, I'm
fairly certain. Frankly I'm astounded that no one has come after me
yet-- that I'm allowed to walk around the days and nights knowing the
things that I do." Molly separated her hands and put them on her knees,
used them to help push herself up into a more upright position once
more.
"Which leads me to my next: Flood, what are your plans for me? Certainly you must have some."
Flood
"There
are worse things, but it made me curious about why you asked me about
reflections, about mirrors, and about their loss," and surely Flood has
his own things he keeps close to his chest, but it doesn't keep him from
revealing this card now. That his interest had been piqued by this
question and why she'd been asking it.
There are other things,
more pressing things, that need to be addressed, though. She asks what
his plans are for her. She's certain he must have one or even some.
"What
did Nathan tell you about the night that we met?" Flood answers her
question with a question. "Don't lie, and don't hold back. I need to
know."
Molly Toombs
Her question was met with another. Apparently she would have to give some intellectual favors before she would get her answer.
Molly's
eyebrows hopped up, a little surprised. She looked defensive for a
second; this portrayed by the fact that she'd pulled in a breath that
filled her chest out and that her shoulders had started to square just a
little. But, she answers all the same, and doesn't even take very long
to do so.
"He's not speaking to me."
The answer has the
sting of hurt to it, her words themselves almost bitter in her mouth.
This was possibly why she had seemed defensive-- Flood's question had
gone to a place that ached, and she wished to keep it safe.
"He
wouldn't answer me that night, and the next morning he called and asked
me to meet him. When I did, he told me not to call him." Her brow
furrowed. Her eyes had since slipped away from Flood's, down and to the
side while she was recalling and retelling the encounter. "He finds
his association with me to be a death sentence, so he's cut his ties."
She
swallowed, then turned her hands over so her palms were up and
exposed. The gesture was almost apologetic. "Whatever he may be
saying, I don't know. Somehow I don't think he's saying anything,
though. I think he's just trying to escape now."
Flood
Molly
has misunderstood Flood. It was easy for him to tell after she's spoken
for a bit, but she shows that she is hurt, and he doesn't stop her once
she has started down that path. She tells him how Nathan has gone to
ground, cut ties with her, and it's because he feels the need to escape
the shadow world that she still seems interested in.
And when she
is done, when she has spoken with honesty about what she suspects about
Nathan's current intentions, Flood finally raises up a hand to correct
her.
"The night that Nathan and I first met, Molly, is
something I think will have more bearing on this conversation. Will be
more indicative of the question you asked," he finishes, holding his
look upon her, one he has held since she revealed the pain of losing her
relationship with Nathan.
Molly Toombs
Molly
blinked, caught a little off-guard by the clarification. He was
inquiring about when he'd first met Nate-- the night that he'd put fangs
in the man's neck and sent him spiraling down a hole of suspicion and
doubt and fear. Nathan already knew that things weren't all that most
people thought they were. He's been hearing and seeing Shades since he
was a little kid. But all the same, finding that Vampires were real and
walking around had shaken the ex-Marine-- far more so than it had the
trauma nurse.
She did have an adventurer's spirit, though. She was still figuring out what Nate's spirit was.
Still, she was clearly trying to sweep her memory to remember anything that Nate may have said about that night.
"He
just... " She frowned. This was last year that the discussion had
occurred, so she was about to summarize but figured that Flood was after
detail, so she started again in a way that would offer more than a
one-sentence summary.
"I hadn't talked to him about you much,
really. Not until the night you and I spoke, when you told me about his
sniffing after you. I'd gone to see him, tried to warn him to stop
following your trail." Whether this act was done for Nate or Flood's
safety it was hard to say. Probably Nate's, possibly both.
"He
was in a twist about what you did to him-- the bite. It shook him up.
It's the whole reason he was searching for you. I'd asked after what he
may have found out but he didn't say-- told me he was a reporter, not
an investigator." There's a small smirk there, a sad ghost of a thing,
and it's gone quickly.
"But nothing specific. The next time he
had anything to say it was a few weeks back, and that was only that he
suspected you were on to him."
Clearly, Flood had been.
Flood
"The
night I met Nathan, he was playing the hero and set on protecting a man
from a woman who was like me. This was a very dangerous and feral woman
who would've gutted him for getting in her way," and he doesn't have
even the ghost of a smile on anymore. His face is set as stone.
"I
stopped him and he struggled and to calm him- and because I thought I
deserved something for my effort- I put my teeth into him and took his
blood. It left him weak and it put him on his ass, but it was nothing
compared to how he might've found himself if he hadn't been stopped,"
and Flood thinks over what he had said, as if verifying the truth of it,
making sure what he was getting at could be made clear by those facts.
"And when he came after me, said he was willing to kill me, came to my door looking for me," a beat.
"Well,
it was my turn to consider gutting him, but that's when he told me he
wanted help putting you off the path you're walking down," looking back
and Molly as he notes her part in that confrontation. "Keeping you
safe."
"And I told him that he should go, and that now you had a
black knight and a white knight standing for you. And now I know he
lacks the conviction to do even that. To continue protecting you when I
can't," and his mouth moves around those words like they disgust him.
Like Nathan and his course of action, the one Molly had just described,
disgust him.
"You asked what plans I had for you. I do what is
right, when I can, and I take what I like as payment for it, like I did
Nathan's blood that night I might've saved his life," sitting back in
the chair, sounding a bit resigned to following his own path, the one
he'd just laid out.
"When I want something from you in return for
my favor, I will come for it. Until then I'll let you grow into whatever
you become, because why would I stop it?" And that's when his eyes
leave her. He folds his hands in his lap and looks down at them, like
he's thinking of the things he has done with them.
"You caught my
eye, Ms. Toombs, by being that which you are. I wouldn't try to make you
anything else," his lips pressing into a line as he finishes.
Molly Toombs
Flood
told Molly the story of what happened when he bit Nate. He explained
circumstances, and Molly took them with a grain of salt. It was one
side of the story, and she would trust that he was telling her the truth
up to a point because, frankly, he had done nothing to really ever
betray her trust yet. Still, though, she's learning lessons about
trust, so it only goes so far. The tale was more than she had before,
but that was all that it could be called-- a tale.
Molly's face
was virtually unreadable for that story. Then Flood spoke of the more
recent night when Nate came to his door. She did not interrupt, but she
looked surprised and conflicted both at talk of black and white
knights. The disgust in the Lasombra's voice is matched by hurt and
disappointment in Molly's demeanor when the white knight is verbally
moved off the chess board to set by its side instead. She'd dropped her
gaze to her hands again.
Then, her answer. She considered his
words, looking to her hands still while she did. When she spoke again
her voice was small. It didn't need to be much more, the apartment was
quiet.
"I appreciate that," in response to his closing statement.
"I'm flattered that you'd label yourself my Black Knight, too, Flood,
really." His lips were in a line, and she pushed hers to make a
gracious smile. It's quick to fade, though, and her face slipped back
to the contemplative half-frown that went along with heavy thinking.
"I'm
not sure whether I'm better off not knowing the cost for such a favor
or not, but I'd be more comfortable knowing what I'm expected to pay
when it comes down to it." Finally, eyes hopped back up to his. "Is it
pushing my luck to ask what to expect you to come for?" Given the tone
of the question, she doesn't seem to be able to summon to mind anything
that he'd want from her, except perhaps blood or someone else's
betrayal.
Flood
"You don't push your luck, but if
there is an answer to that question, I don't know it yet," he answers.
It isn't as flat as his expression might indicate. His tone is hopeful
instead.
"Isn't that the nature of friendship? It's not a
contract, this for that and expected in this amount of time," finally
looking back up, his hands unfolding to weight the give and take of a
more formal agreement.
"I would stand for you when it comes to it
and the circumstances won't change that," he says next. "When I am in
need I hope that you will do the same, but I won't know until that time
comes. I hope you will be willing," and she could interpret the meaning
of that phrasing, hope, in the context of what he'd said earlier about coming for what he wants. Taking it.
"I
know that the simplest things can stand between success and failure.
Between life and death," and there had been that tone, that she had no
clue what he could want from her, and this is his answer to it. "And
perhaps feeding you secrets will make you a greater impediment between
myself and the next great unknown."
Molly Toombs
For
a time after Flood finished speaking, Molly was quiet. Contemplative,
perhaps. But rather than appearing tense with the fact that she didn't
know what Flood may come for one day, she appeared more relaxed.
Finally she looked like she was sitting in her own living room rather
than in the foyer of some meeting hall, or across the desk from a man
while sitting in his office.
"Perhaps it will. I certainly won't
complain." Molly stood up for the first time since allowing Flood to
choose where they would settle. Her hands went to her lower back,
pushed to help stretch for a moment, then simply rested at her sides.
She circled around the sofa she'd been sitting on to walk back toward
the front of the apartment, into the kitchen.
Judging by the
stemware she'd pulled from one of the shelves that required her to
stretch up onto tippy-toes, she was probably choosing a beverage for her
nerves. She was speaking while she did this, her voice carrying easily
through the open layout. At no point was she out of Flood's sight from
where the armchair he'd claimed was positioned.
"Of course I'll
be willing to stand for you. I'm not positive what that entails,
exactly. I'm no warrior or anything, but what I can do I will." She'd
pause and glance back with her fingers on the stem of a second wine
glass. The inquiry was clear as to whether he would like one as well--
she wasn't very clear on what the rules for consumption were with
vampires just yet. What would or wouldn't make them sick.
"I,
ah... I'm grateful to you, you know." Whether he accepted or denied
the offer, she would next go to the fridge for an already-open bottle of
red wine and pour either one or two glasses, whichever. "That you
haven't made efforts to Ghoul me, or bite me... Entrance, enslave,
kill.... All those things I was learning to fear from vampires? Thank
you for not following through with them."
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