our time with this one , the Hessian purred from the dark recesses of Ireland’s mind, his demonic tremor husky with longing. Imagine, playing with it here in the open. No one would say a word to stop us. Hell, girl, they may label us a hero for ridding the world of its existence.
Ireland filled her lungs to capacity and exhaled slowly , snuffing out the desire that flared at his suggestion. The fluttering twitch beneath her left eye made the strain of her internal struggle visible. Still, she squared her shoulders and overcame it.
“You don’t fit the monster stereotype,” Ireland pointed out, her fingers drumming against the hilt of her sword. “Maybe it’s the quiet contemplation angle you’re working. Although, I’m guessing the guy you flung into traffic would disagree.”
Full lips, cracked and weathered by the abrasive sands of the hourglass, parted. The ghoul’s tongue struggled to force words passed her desiccated throat, “P-p-p.” Long, matted locks slapped against her cheeks as she shook her head in frustration and tried again, “P-p-Poe!” Victory brightened her eyes with bursts of silver sparks.
“As in Edgar Allen?”
Dipping her head, the ghoul nodded in a way that would’ve appeared demure if not contradicted by her morbid appearance. Again, she paced. Mostly likely feeling the need to move after centuries trapped in a coffin. Her bare feet cracked at the wear, brown ooze seeping from the wounds.
Ireland widened her stance , a foreboding chill prickling down her spine. “And you would be—?”
T he bewildered ghoul cocked her head, as if mystified by the question. “L-l-Len-o-ore,” she managed.
“Lenore? You’re not quite as fictional as American Literature would have us believe.” Running her tongue over her top teeth, Ireland chose her next words very carefully. “I really hate to tell you this—especially since you seem to be having the mother of all bad centuries—but Edgar Allen Poe died over a hundred years ago.”
Lenore’s indigo eyes narrowed, her hands curling into claws at her sides.
“Easy, blondie,” Ireland warned. One hand rose to halt the ghoul’s threatening advance, the other closing around the hilt of her sword. “Just to be clear, I had nothing to do with his death. Alcoholism was rumored to have played a part.”
A n animalistic roar tore from Lenore’s throat as she charged with death steaming from her glare.
“I guess talk time is over .” Unsheathing her blade, Ireland flipped it over the back of her hand before allowing it to nestle into her waiting palm. “Any way I can get you to reconsider this? We had a good thing going on here. We’re practically girlfriends.”
In place of a response, Lenore swiped at Ireland’s core with yellow dagger-like nails.
A spinning side-step landed Ireland safely out of the way, yet also invited in the red haze of malevolence that clouded the edges of her vision. “Look, I get you’re pissed,” she snarled through her teeth. “You’ve been in a box! But as far as New York real estate goes, it was surprisingly roomy.”
At the second vicious swing that winged passed her face, Ireland arched back Matrix-style to avoid getting her nose pierced in the most unsanitary way. Black tendrils of madness crept up the back of her neck, urging her to give in and unleash the salivating beast just beneath the surface.
A pause.
A breath, as she waited for her conscious to weigh in with the moral implications. Only to hear … silence. The fingertip hold of control she clung to slipped away, that red veil descending before her eyes.
“ Ireland is ever the diplomat. Always talking, seeking the nonviolent methods. ” While it was her own throat that reverberated with the menacing growl, the booming voice belonged to another. The Hessian raised the sword before him, turning the blade to admire how it gleamed in the sunlight. “ But you’re not dealing with Ireland anymore .”
Leaning to the side, he
Ireland filled her lungs to capacity and exhaled slowly , snuffing out the desire that flared at his suggestion. The fluttering twitch beneath her left eye made the strain of her internal struggle visible. Still, she squared her shoulders and overcame it.
“You don’t fit the monster stereotype,” Ireland pointed out, her fingers drumming against the hilt of her sword. “Maybe it’s the quiet contemplation angle you’re working. Although, I’m guessing the guy you flung into traffic would disagree.”
Full lips, cracked and weathered by the abrasive sands of the hourglass, parted. The ghoul’s tongue struggled to force words passed her desiccated throat, “P-p-p.” Long, matted locks slapped against her cheeks as she shook her head in frustration and tried again, “P-p-Poe!” Victory brightened her eyes with bursts of silver sparks.
“As in Edgar Allen?”
Dipping her head, the ghoul nodded in a way that would’ve appeared demure if not contradicted by her morbid appearance. Again, she paced. Mostly likely feeling the need to move after centuries trapped in a coffin. Her bare feet cracked at the wear, brown ooze seeping from the wounds.
Ireland widened her stance , a foreboding chill prickling down her spine. “And you would be—?”
T he bewildered ghoul cocked her head, as if mystified by the question. “L-l-Len-o-ore,” she managed.
“Lenore? You’re not quite as fictional as American Literature would have us believe.” Running her tongue over her top teeth, Ireland chose her next words very carefully. “I really hate to tell you this—especially since you seem to be having the mother of all bad centuries—but Edgar Allen Poe died over a hundred years ago.”
Lenore’s indigo eyes narrowed, her hands curling into claws at her sides.
“Easy, blondie,” Ireland warned. One hand rose to halt the ghoul’s threatening advance, the other closing around the hilt of her sword. “Just to be clear, I had nothing to do with his death. Alcoholism was rumored to have played a part.”
A n animalistic roar tore from Lenore’s throat as she charged with death steaming from her glare.
“I guess talk time is over .” Unsheathing her blade, Ireland flipped it over the back of her hand before allowing it to nestle into her waiting palm. “Any way I can get you to reconsider this? We had a good thing going on here. We’re practically girlfriends.”
In place of a response, Lenore swiped at Ireland’s core with yellow dagger-like nails.
A spinning side-step landed Ireland safely out of the way, yet also invited in the red haze of malevolence that clouded the edges of her vision. “Look, I get you’re pissed,” she snarled through her teeth. “You’ve been in a box! But as far as New York real estate goes, it was surprisingly roomy.”
At the second vicious swing that winged passed her face, Ireland arched back Matrix-style to avoid getting her nose pierced in the most unsanitary way. Black tendrils of madness crept up the back of her neck, urging her to give in and unleash the salivating beast just beneath the surface.
A pause.
A breath, as she waited for her conscious to weigh in with the moral implications. Only to hear … silence. The fingertip hold of control she clung to slipped away, that red veil descending before her eyes.
“ Ireland is ever the diplomat. Always talking, seeking the nonviolent methods. ” While it was her own throat that reverberated with the menacing growl, the booming voice belonged to another. The Hessian raised the sword before him, turning the blade to admire how it gleamed in the sunlight. “ But you’re not dealing with Ireland anymore .”
Leaning to the side, he
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