Re: rory/wren : church at night
She believed in angels. She had no way of knowing if she'd believed before that crossroads on a dark evening. There was no proof of faith in the few things Evie had given her. Her identity in a plastic bag, and her faith hadn't been strong enough to end up there. But she believed in angels. She knew the Devil had been one. She knew demons had God in them as well, and she thought the line a blurring and swirling thing. She believed in angels, and she thought the man in the church with her might have wings made of jet. Wasn't that how demon's wings were? But she had no belief she would be a demon when she died, because she wasn't suited. Non, and she couldn't even stretch her belief to think of a life lived like Persephone or Eurydice. Non, and she thought she would burn and scream for eternity.
Somehow, she felt this was a fair price for whatever she'd bought, though she had no notion of the purchase.
He joined her, bootfalls fast, and she didn't question the inhumanity of his movements. He was fast, and she was slow, and she saw that as a pretty thing made of slots that fit perfectly. She looked over at him, a turn of her neck and she'd missed looking upon him. There was something in his blackened blood that sang to her, and she wouldn't be able to find words for it, no matter whether she spoke French or English.
His knees fell wide, and she touched one with fingertips carousing on the fabric of his dress pants. "I've moved above the music store. I promised I would have no clients there, but you're not a client. Come with me?" she asked, unaware of his gaze upon the fangs that bruised her neck. Twice a week, and they healed before the next bite came, but it was a small price to pay for a home and money building up again. She was no vampire; she was simply feed.