Truth be told, Sonja honestly had no clue what was wrong with Barachiel. But damn if she wasn't enjoying it. Yeah, she had known George and Joan were on their merry ways over, but her better judgment had acted up for once in her absurdly long life and told her that, just maybe, a showdown with two Saints wasn't a good idea- not when she wasn't prepared. So Sonja had gone ahead to the angel-turned-dark's apartment, and drawn her out far before the two Saints ever got to the building. Currently Barachiel was having spiced apple cider in the coffee shop across the street, and being hit on by about every guy in the place. Seeing her in her skanktastic angel costume made the demon almost proud, and she half-matched in her own outfit.
As much fun as they were having, Sonneillon realized the need to do some pest control on Barachiel's apartment, if only to ensure that the dark angel could go back to her place in peace, without being spirited away to Bible camp or whatever. The elevator ride up was a long one, giving her plenty of time to meditate on the heady scent of Saint growing ever stronger. Metal armor and holy grace stung at the back of her throat as she sashayed down the hall and kicked the apartment door open.
Oh, look. They were already here. It was almost cute. She opened her trench coat, pulled out a shotgun, cocked it, and aimed it lowly at them before they could get any closer. Those swords were reflecting a too-white light that was already hurting her eyes, and she wasn't about to fuck around.
She was greeted with a disbelieving and utterly unimpressed stare. "Fuck," Jo said, the profanity sounding somehow wrong to Sonneillon coming from such pristine goddamn lips.
"No thanks, baby," Sonja sneered, taking a step closer.
Jo cursed inwardly and took a step back, really not wanting to get a chest full of buck shot. She had honestly expected Sonneillon to show up unarmed beyond the stupid knife, or with a sharpened pitchfork or something. Sonneillon, from all rumors, had a habit of bringing knives to a fist-fight and coming out beat half to Hell by George. But guns? This was eight kinds of not good. She glanced at George, a little unsure.