layla rossi ✝ felicia book (ex_halfvampi989) wrote in thereincarnates, @ 2012-12-03 16:14:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | layla rossi |
Who: Layla Rossi
What: A common nightmare makes Layla come to a decision.
Where: Felicia's apartment in Paris.
When: Monday night, December 3rd, 2012.
Warnings: Nada!
The nightmare woke her up. It was always the same, but not. The details changed; what happened never did. Variations on a theme. I have these nightmares about him, about him coming for me, always getting inside... He's there in my blood. And it was always the blood that woke her up in the end – her blood, not his. Whether you kill me or not, the only way you'll ever be rid of me is when you're dead. Believe that.
I do believe it.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Layla stared at herself in the mirror over her desk, hard and unforgiving. The nightmare replayed in her head over and over again, and her grip on her gun hadn't loosened since she'd woken up gasping several minutes ago, but there was nothing to shoot. Nothing to be afraid of, either – she knew that, yet the nightmare never stopped. It was Felicia's more than hers, but it didn't matter. Their blood was the same, and she'd rather have Felicia's than some strangers' she'd never know. Even if it meant sharing that blood with Skinner Sweet himself.
Layla looked at herself and saw a lot of things. An orphan. A fighter. A woman with no past to speak of and a future that was more than uncertain and likely to be very short. Sometimes if she stared long enough, she could see Felicia, which was comforting, if a bit bizarre. She saw darkness, but not evil. She didn't see the infection Sweet had tried to spread, but the purpose she'd found in fighting it.
And so, after awhile, her grip relaxed, and her gun went back on her nightstand, golden bullets still in the chamber. Her hair fell in a tangle over her face, and when she looked back up in the mirror, she combed her fingers through it, almost serene. She gave herself a nod. "Okay." She stood up and made a decision. "Okay."
No longer even close to tired, Layla spent the rest of the night working. A project that started on her kitchen table spread to her living room, maps and documents and photos and notes taking up every available surface, including the floor. A spiderweb of enemies and allies unraveled; those who were too dangerous to live and those who'd fight for the living – and there at the center of it all, Sweet himself. She hadn't forgotten about him. Never would. But he wasn't the only threat in the world, and she and Felicia both were patient. Skinner Sweet could keep.
By the time the sun rose that morning, Layla brewed her third pot of coffee, and she perched alertly in her favorite chair as she looked over her handiwork, tired now but satisfied. She took a sip from her mug and allowed herself a small smile. "Plans, plans," she murmured, smile growing. "So many plans."