| Vigor |
[04 Sep 2007|12:48am] |
“Well, look … the roaches have all gathered.”
The smile on Jill’s face as she waltzed into the conference room bordered on psychotic, her folders flopping onto the desk as she surveyed the eight bodies sitting on either side of her. Colleagues, but people Jill hardly knew – and sure as hell didn’t care to.
There was Mr. Parsons, an attorney who specialized in corporate accounting – guy had the IRS in his back pocket, but his eternal fixation with little Thai boys was a tad disturbing. And who could forget Angela Travis, a fat waste of skin with nails that would put most vampire fangs to shame?
But Jill’s smile faded when she laid eyes on the man sitting at the opposite side of the conference table … goddamn Roger McDonnell. The smooth-talking, too-much-hair-gel-using Oklahoma boy who for some reason thought he had a shot at getting under Jill’s skirt.
Never mind the fact that, up until a couple weeks ago, Jill had a boyfriend. And ignore Roger’s sleazy attitude and the fact that he once contracted chlamydia from a For’sak demon. His smile, his oh-so-clever attempt to be flirtatious, just made the young lawyer chuckle to herself.
( Worthless fuckers )
McDonnell squealed loud enough to echo through the ninth floor of Wolfram & Hart’s Las Vegas offices, Jill’s satisfied grin radiating as she left the conference room and dialed a number on her cell phone.
“Yeah, Andersen,” she spoke into the phone. “I need to schedule a meeting tomorrow morning.
“Yes … the Conduit and I need to have a talk.”
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| No shit, Sherlock |
[04 Sep 2007|11:58am] |
Mallory had to force herself to wait until it was something like a decent hour to call Corbett. If she dragged him out of bed he would be much less likely to help her. So she loitered around the rooms Victoria had rented for her and Sonya, watching television and ordering breakfast from room service. Thinking about Sonya and how long it might take her to recover. She had a feeling that the Russian would be more or less all right in a couple of days, but she wasn't going to leave her alone until she was certain of that.
At exactly noon, the redhead flipped the television off and picked up the phone. Dialing the Englishman's number, she worked on her story and then waited for him to pick up. This was not jumping the gun, this was just ... gathering information.
When she heard the familiar voice on the other end of the line, she said, "Good morning, Corbett. Well, afternoon at this point, I guess. Are you busy right now? I have a few questions, and I think you're the only one close enough at hand to answer them."
( Again with the succubi ... )
"Oh, I'll be in touch." Mallory almost sounded amused now, as if the idea of her going anywhere was a little joke she and the Watcher were sharing. "Don't get beat up by anymore vampires while I'm gone, okay? I don't have much free time to dispense lectures right now."
The redhead paused, checking to see if there was anything else she needed to say, then decided that there wasn't. "I'll talk to you later, Corbett." She placed the receiver gently back into its cradle, then looked broodingly at the still-silent television.
Soap operas or Jerry Springer?
The question made the thought of dealing with a half-succubus almost appealing.
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| Time to Move |
[04 Sep 2007|11:54pm] |
Corbett stared at his cell phone. Just looked at it, didn’t blink once.
Mallory’s voicemail was exactly what the Watcher wasn’t looking for. Was it his duty to keep tabs of the Defiler situation and do his part to see to it that the Tin Monster and its master were brought down? Yeah, but after running afoul of the Corruptress and what she did to him, Corbett wanted nothing more to do with this.
But he couldn’t avoid it forever. Sure, it was dangerous, but that was the nature of his job. Always had been, always would be. In some ways, Elfleda was no worse than Desdemona; then in others, she was a lot worse.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered to himself, lighting a cigarette and plopping his aging frame into the couch. He had to find a new way to research Elfleda – what with most of his books going up in flames and all. Being sneakier about it would also be good.
Rhiannon, on the other hand, had sent sneaky packing years ago. When it came down to Elfleda, she got as far into the Corruptress’s face as was wise and then some. It had bitten her in the ass but she had come to accept two things.
One, as long as she lived in Searchlight, Elfleda would be a part of her life. Two, as long as she lived in Searchlight, Rhiannon’s job was to make war with her in any way possible. To be a very sharp, nagging thorn in the Bride’s side. Dangerous, yes, but also absolutely necessary.
The clock ticked. It had been months since the last major show of power by Elfelda’s newest and most destructive pet, the Defiler. Somewhere, probably in the literal bowels of the city, that heap of metal continued to build its altars of bones and grinding machinery, hoping to tear a hole between Earth and the nearest hell dimension.
Healthy in body if not exactly spirit, Rhiannon was determined to put this thing in the ground for good. Consider it unfinished and very personal business. Then she could get on to other things. Without Whistler.
She drove to Corbett’s apartment in Searchlight by memory. No longer did she associate it with Matthew; the Watcher was long gone and he wasn’t coming back, no matter many pathetic women sat outside it, looking mournful (read: Grace... and okay, Rhiannon, too). She knocked on the front door and stuck her hands in her pockets.
The Watcher shook his head, snapping out of his fog when a knock came at the door. He frowned momentarily, wondering who was visiting him. Corbett wasn’t exactly used to people just popping by … at least, not people he wanted to see. Elfleda was his last guest, and she was decidedly uninvited.
Too bad she wasn’t a vampire. Then that would’ve actually mattered.
( The Defiler Needs To Go )
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