Drastic Characters: Daimon and Daisy Setting: Daimon's shop, NYC, afternoon-ish Content: Alliteration, Daisy's mouth, Daimon's hotness. Summary: Daisy figures the only way to deal with Alex anymore is either murder or an exorcism. There's a certain finality to murder, so she feels out the demon thing first.
Blading was an exercise in self-flagellation during the winter on the narrow downtown streets of the city, where people didn't know enough to get the fuck out of the way, and tax money went towards private catamarans and prostitutes instead of clearing the fucking sidewalk. It took Daisy a couple of weeks to learn that, no matter how much she swore and how liberal she was with whatever laws bound rollerbladers around here, it wasn't going to get easier. Sometimes, she missed Portland. At least there, when she was forced to jack a car and drive, the benefits were clear. In New York City, it was just a whole different kind of rage.
After a whole city of people who learned how to drive at clown school, she didn't even get to park within three blocks of where the scribble on her palm told her where she wanted to be. She had to climb over a snowbank to even get onto the sidewalk then and tromp in a black cloud of pure violent threat that kept her only moderately insulated from fellow pedestrians all the way to what was probably some new age joke of a shop. At least, that's what it would be back home. Sometimes, she appreciated New York. At least here, if she needed an expert in demonology, he was probably in the phone book. In Portland, that was some kind of LARP group.
Whether it was totally for real or not, this little store knew how to dress up convincingly enough. When Daisy finally shoved her way in, the bell chiming above her and the door slamming closed behind her to seal the winter cold out, she had to pause and drink it in a moment, deciding if the effort was worth it. If this was some asshole's idea of weaseling money out of sensitive souls in need, she could take her business elsewhere. She really needed some advice on some seriously real shit. But once that brisk smell of Old Man Winter's ass was warmed away, and Daisy could breath what was like a mix between a used book store and a church, observed the general disarray of people who actually had jobs and didn't see one fucking crystal ball-- oh, there it was, okay, one wasn't pushing it-- she figured the next step was meeting this so called expert and sizing him up.
"I'm looking for...Damian? Daimon?" she announced as she approached the counter and someone who looked eager to sell her something, barely glancing up over her yellow tinted aviators and instead reading what she had tried to write on her hand with her glove just pulled away from her wrist. That couldn't be right. "Damian?" she tried again, trying to force the letters into the right order by saying them out loud.