angelic_gabe (angelic_gabe) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-12-12 18:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | gabriel allen, zipporah bakst |
Who: Zipporah Bakst, Gabriel Allen
What: An unpleasant discovery
Where: Zipporah's flat
When: 12 December, 1888 [Backdated]
Rating: PG
Zipporah was never quite certain what to expect when Gabriel Allen came to call.
He tended to pop up at rather unexpected times, under decidedly odd circumstances -- a tomb in need of excavating, a Detective Inspector collapsing into a swoon at a ball, a vampire crime boss in need of bonesetting… and while they’d come to an understanding of sorts, she still didn’t quite know what to make of the man.
And here he was, looking (as per usual) ridiculously pretty, and giving her a rather enormous bouquet of flowers.
She would’ve utterly been at sea and very nearly would’ve begun to insist that she wasn’t romantically interested, but Keira had mentioned that flowers had meanings, messages depending on the type, so instead, flustered, two spots of color high on her cheeks, she’d merely stammered out her greeting and invited him in, and managed to ask what this particular arrangement meant.
He swept off his hat and smiled (which only made her blush more furiously), and pointed out the different flowers, describing them as he went.
There were canterbury bells for gratitude, yellow roses for friendship, and dark pink tea roses for thankfulness and remembrance.
He leaned over to kiss her cheek as he handed her the bouquet.
“Thank you for helping Mr Eden,” he said, quietly. “And Georgie and Chiara, for good measure,” he added, “but Lord in heaven, I am grateful for you, Zipporah, my dear. The sort of grateful that cannot truly ever be repaid in full. I intend to do my best, however.”
Zipporah hid her pleased smile by bustling to the kitchen and getting a pitcher for the flowers.
“Tch,” she said, shrugging a little as she returned. “I was glad for to provide help. He is a good man.” She gestured to the chairs. “Please, would you care to sit? Would you want some tea?”
Gabriel nodded and sat, and looked as he usually did, which was to say ridiculously handsome, and when she brought over the tea, he looked particularly pleased with the podstakannik she used for guests, and asked rather kindly after her aunt, and her safety given recent goings-on before conversation came back round to Mr Eden, and when upon his prompting her she described the procedure, and what she’d found, his face drained of blood and his mouth grew hard.
“Thank you,” he said, once more, although she waved it off, and when he reached for his pocketbook, she glared at him until he raised his hands in defeat.
“Zipporah, my dear,” he said, his face regaining some of its usual good humor (even though there were some shadows lurking in those fine dark eyes), “you really must consider it an investment in your future. An investment I am all too happy to make.”
She shook her head, a stubborn tilt to her chin. “You are not the person I should want payment from,” she said, “although I doubt I shall get it, it is she who owes me the favor.”
That led to a pause -- he set the tea back down gently on the tray, his expression guarded.
“I would be careful of that,” he said, quietly. “I realize you are your own woman, and have some… degree of understanding with the Captain, but she is not lightly crossed.”
Zipporah looked over at him, curious, but likewise careful. “You were at the fire,” she said, quietly, and he looked at her, surprised, a flash of something she couldn’t quite track in his eyes. “Archie told me,” she offered by way of explanation.
“I was,” he said, a twist to his mouth. “Bertie knows,” he added, as a soft aside, but she caught his expression and nodded, and the set of his shoulders relaxed before continuing, his fingers brushing the metal handle of his glass absently. “It was set by a Russian witch who had a talent for fire, assisted by one of my own, of all the damndest things. Both the demon and the witch met their end rather… thoroughly that afternoon.” His eyes met hers. “...The witch was the ghost she summoned during the masquerade.”
At any other time, she would’ve wanted (badly) to discuss Biddie, to pick his brain about what he knew about her, to complain about her recent woes with the Russians herself, but Zipporah’s brain had halted at the word demon with a grinding stutter, and her stomach began to twist as she looked over at Gabriel Allen with an expression of horror.
One of my own. Demon.
She remembered Keira’s words, said in jest at the time, that he was something that made him a wonderful lover, and she felt her lips turn numb.
The man ran a brothel. His daughter, his beautiful daughter, helped him, and perhaps was a prostitute herself. She knew he slept with men and women both, and those she’d met seemed universally besotted. It all made a horrible sort of sense.
“Zipporah?” Gabriel asked, his pretty face all concern, his hand reaching for her. “Is everything…”
She shrunk away, her throat thick.
“You are Shedim? Demon?” She said, her voice low and harsh, her skin itching, feeling the echo of the brush of his lips against her cheek, the way she’d been blushing and grinning and he was in her home, and his daughter had been just the other day, bewitching creatures of the devil who stole energies through sexual congress, through touch, and she gripped her granny’s necklace in her hand, hard.
Gabriel had withdrawn his hand slowly, carefully, his expression very cautious, as if she were a wild horse who needed gentling.
“I have always thought that term rather unfortunate,” he said, a smile flashing across his face, but not quite reaching his eyes, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, “but yes. My sort are called demons. More precisely, in my case, I am an incubus. I require the freely offered pleasure of others for my survival.”
“You drain the energies from the touch of the skin?” She asked, and he paused, and then nodded slightly.
“Only when the pleasure is consensual, and even then, I take care to not draw too much from any given person.”
“Hm,” Zipporah replied, distrusting. “And you have never drained mine, nor attempted for to do so?” She continued, her tone steely, and he shook his head no.
“Why not?” She asked, and she scowled as she saw the smallest smile in the corner of his mouth. He stilled yet again, his features carefully schooled, his gaze steady and cautious.
“Because it wasn’t what you wanted,” he said, quietly. “You are a beautiful and brilliant woman, my dear, and should you have desired seduction, I would have gladly pursued you, but I am capable of restraint, and I know well enough when someone would rather just be flirted with.”
“...Does Mr Eden know of your nature?” She asked, the color high on her cheeks, “and Mrs Adams?” This led to a pause, but after a beat, he gave her a tip of his head in the affirmative.
She shifted in her chair, frowning, looking over at him intently. “The babies,” she added, abruptly. “They cannot give permissions. Do you steal energies from them?”
His forehead wrinkled, and he shook his head slowly. “There are… there are many different beliefs about my sort,” he said, his voice low, “but the truth is incredibly boring, I’m afraid. I’m gifted with charm, a touch longer-lived than most, and live by sipping the pleasure of others as our mutual acquaintance sips blood. Unlike her, however, I must ask permission. And for the record, my sort makes a point of gathering from those fully grown.” His eyes flashed despite his carefully guarded expression.
Her frown deepened. “You have no wings?” She asked, and he paused, and shook his head. No. “You cannot tell of the future?” No. “You have human feets?” He nodded his head at that, raising an eyebrow, and she raised a finger.
“I am trying my best,” she said, a little sharply. “It is because we have so many peoples in common, peoples who have good opinion of you, and because of our shared history these past few months that you have not been ordered for to leave. And you…” she huffed a little. “You have always been… a gentleman in your behaviors towards me.”
She paused, and gnawed her lip, her eyes flashing over to meet his.
Asmodeus was Shedim, and he followed the Torah.
Not all of them were malicious.
“I should prefer,” she said, quietly, “for the near future at least, that we do not touch of the skin unless I give permissions.”
He nodded, unable to hide the brief flash of dismay and hurt on his face, and she frowned. “I am trying, Mr Allen,” she said, quietly, “and I should wish to… to verify what you have told before I may trust you fully.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Please forgive my caution, and I do…” she bit her lip. “I do like you,” she finally managed. “I believed you to be… to be a decent man, and I am willing to be convinced that you are a decent demon, if such a thing is possible, despite what the scholars say.”
She shrugged a shoulder again, a half-smile curling up at the edge of her mouth, a touch embarrassed, but still nervous in his presence -- she’d have to talk with Una or Mac about it. Or Bertie, as embarrassing as that would be, and as much as she suspected his judgment might be flawed. “I am a woman of God,” she added, biting her lip. “I need a little time for to reconcile being friends with a devil.”
He nodded, and stood, giving her a small, formal bow.
“Miss Bakst,” he said, his voice low, “I shall leave you to your inquiries. I hope…” he frowned a little. “I hope we might come to a better, more honest friendship once you have. It would be quite the pity otherwise.”
She looked up at him, feeling a sudden ache in her chest. “It would be, yes.”
Gabriel tipped his hat, and paused at the door. “Do be careful,” he said, quietly.
She nodded. “Same with you,” she said, and with that, he nodded, and took his leave.