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writing_shadows"I am not a likable man," Elijah Lokan said.
Ruth smiled, and there was a kind of delicate candle bright light in her smile.
"Then," she said, "we find ourselves facing a conundrum. For I find myself liking you very much, and yet you have already decreed that to be impossible, by virtue of your being unlikeable."
Elijah frowned, and looked suspicious, but Ruth could almost smell the ginger-prickle of curiosity, dancing across his skin. He'd teach her, she was sure, if she pushed him. Tonight, without the noise of her Beast clamouring in her ears, she could read people clearly for once.
"What kind of a man do you think I am?" Elijah asked.
"Hold out your hand," she replied and got another frown in return.
"Is this some gypsy trick?" he asked, but something in him shifted very very slightly when he felt her hair brushing against the palm of his hand.
Ruth drew in the scent of his skin, the stories carried in the grooves worn into his hand. She smelled blood, rage, steel and dirt.
"You're a killer," she said, and pulled back. Her smile was still soft and bright. "But not a murderer."
To one side she could smell Charlotte - beautiful, soft, clever Charlotte - dead, yet still recognisably her. Across the room, Father Gabriel strutted in a flurry of bay rum and woodsmoke, and Héléne stood, cold and scentless as jade. To the other side, Danny Kovacs was standing talking to someone. Ruth had described him earlier as smelling of 'blood, money and ego'. They had laughed, but she loved his scent, much as she loved almost everyone she could properly absorb, understand, and for a single brief moment posses. And, in that sense, Ruth realized she loved this room, loved the people in it, loved the way they moved, smelled, broadcast their thoughts and passions to the room.
She hadn't felt like this in months. Maybe years. She wasn't sure. She felt alive, strong, fast and everything felt crystal clear.
It was, she thought, as she leant forward to talk to Elijah once more, totally worth the blood on her hands, on her dress, on the floor of her shop. It was worth Madeleine screaming and even Andre looking slightly squeamish. It was worth the tidying, and the cleaning, and the horrible overpowering stench of bleach which had nearly burnt out her poor sensitive nose.
And, most of all, it was totally worth the death of one insolent missionary, trying to spout his knock off and twisted little religion at her. Sometimes, Ruth thought, there was a place for vengeance. Sometimes, equally, there was just a place for making the world a little less irritating, and there were days when being told that some kind of two bit preacher in Herod's Judea had the right to save her soul was frankly irritating.
Yes.
There was absolutely no doubt about it.
That mormon really had to die. And the more she thought about, the more Ruth felt better about killing him.
She smiled at Elijah and leant across the table towards him.
"You should come and see me again," she said.
Ruth smiled, and there was a kind of delicate candle bright light in her smile.
"Then," she said, "we find ourselves facing a conundrum. For I find myself liking you very much, and yet you have already decreed that to be impossible, by virtue of your being unlikeable."
Elijah frowned, and looked suspicious, but Ruth could almost smell the ginger-prickle of curiosity, dancing across his skin. He'd teach her, she was sure, if she pushed him. Tonight, without the noise of her Beast clamouring in her ears, she could read people clearly for once.
"What kind of a man do you think I am?" Elijah asked.
"Hold out your hand," she replied and got another frown in return.
"Is this some gypsy trick?" he asked, but something in him shifted very very slightly when he felt her hair brushing against the palm of his hand.
Ruth drew in the scent of his skin, the stories carried in the grooves worn into his hand. She smelled blood, rage, steel and dirt.
"You're a killer," she said, and pulled back. Her smile was still soft and bright. "But not a murderer."
To one side she could smell Charlotte - beautiful, soft, clever Charlotte - dead, yet still recognisably her. Across the room, Father Gabriel strutted in a flurry of bay rum and woodsmoke, and Héléne stood, cold and scentless as jade. To the other side, Danny Kovacs was standing talking to someone. Ruth had described him earlier as smelling of 'blood, money and ego'. They had laughed, but she loved his scent, much as she loved almost everyone she could properly absorb, understand, and for a single brief moment posses. And, in that sense, Ruth realized she loved this room, loved the people in it, loved the way they moved, smelled, broadcast their thoughts and passions to the room.
She hadn't felt like this in months. Maybe years. She wasn't sure. She felt alive, strong, fast and everything felt crystal clear.
It was, she thought, as she leant forward to talk to Elijah once more, totally worth the blood on her hands, on her dress, on the floor of her shop. It was worth Madeleine screaming and even Andre looking slightly squeamish. It was worth the tidying, and the cleaning, and the horrible overpowering stench of bleach which had nearly burnt out her poor sensitive nose.
And, most of all, it was totally worth the death of one insolent missionary, trying to spout his knock off and twisted little religion at her. Sometimes, Ruth thought, there was a place for vengeance. Sometimes, equally, there was just a place for making the world a little less irritating, and there were days when being told that some kind of two bit preacher in Herod's Judea had the right to save her soul was frankly irritating.
Yes.
There was absolutely no doubt about it.
That mormon really had to die. And the more she thought about, the more Ruth felt better about killing him.
She smiled at Elijah and leant across the table towards him.
"You should come and see me again," she said.
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