Date: September 24rd, Thursday. Time: Evening. Location: Azoth Manor Characters: Rhys Gray and Genie Byrne Description: Genie has an "accident", Rhys gets a "customer," and nobody was born yesterday. Status/Rating: Private, In-Progress, PG-13: minor warning for Genie's graphic recollections.
Genie knew flesh.
Specifically, Genie knew meat; what color meant fresh, which smell meant ready, how thick a vein of fat could qualify as good. She knew the natural clefts within an animal's musculature—a sweet spot behind the fifth rib, for instance. She knew to pat dry before cutting. She knew to cut across the grain. She knew to remove the legs first.
She knew arm definitely wasn't supposed to be that color.
Frostbite. And, what was even worse, it was generously spread across her forearm. Long sleeves could do their part, but eventually the matter would out itself. Questions would happen. Brows would rise. It all threatened being such a bother.
Her arm was turning freakin' painful, too.
Damn that redcap, from the brim of wet hat to the tip of each withered toe. A month of practically hand-feeding the little twerp--bless Seattle's perennial homeless population--only to have it try to run away. Fat as a tick, Genie hadn't seriously considered having to chase him through a warehouse. Her typical lightning was useless if she couldn't see the dodgy bastard. She had no choice but to invoke Winter and ice the whole place.
And what did she get for her trouble? A spoiled corpse and an aching arm.
I didn't even get the cap, she thought sadly. The bloated cloth took to the cold badly, it'd never dry out well enough to keep. Clearly, she should've tried hard to get the boots.
Of course, even if Genie had succeeded with securing a souvenir, there'd be the subsequent hassle of finding a place for it in the manor. Genie wasn't green enough to risk building a collection anywhere in Azoth. Sometimes being herded back under the manor's roof almost wasn't enough to make up for the parental absence.
Still, there were some advantages to the ol' homestead.
Genie took a shallow breath, adjusted her expression to properly distressed, and knocked, neat as a clock, on Rhys Gray's door.