Re: rory/wren : church at night
She was blind to the reality of what happened in the woods that evening. She knew the dog hadn't returned, and she'd given the horn back to the owner of the antique store, its job done, and she was wary of his wares. There was something in that antique shop that was old and dark, something woken recently and with eyes widening more daily. It was something from far off, a land with sand and sun bright and burning. She didn't like it, and she'd returned the horn and the danger with it. The dog, she thought, would remember whatever had lived in the horn, and it wouldn't return. She'd made no connection between dog and man, and she didn't think herself responsible for the anguish that had caused him to bleed old wounds on the grass that evening.
She was not afraid to touch him. She feared not his drawing near.
He stepped forward, and she tapped the altar step beside herself. Sweet spread of benediction fingers, blasphemer's touch on holy altar rise. Sit by me, or so the tap of fingers invited. She didn't fear the church. She was a creature damned, oui, but wasn't damnation something Heavenly? Wasn't Hell, and Lucifer had been one of His creatures once. "I come to church every Sunday morning," she told him, and she wondered if he would find evil in her confession. "I tell my sins in the confessional. I ask for forgiveness." Her smile was intimacy in pink. "But I don't ask forgiveness for wanting you."
The words fell quiet, and she waited for his own words about Daniel. He paced, and she tipped her head. "When did you meet? He didn't tell me." Upon her throat there were marks, bites, fangs, a physical sign of the agreement she had with the vampire that now offered her lodging above his store.