There's blood on my hands like the blood in you...

[deepestindigo]

In an alley behind a rather nice Chicago hotel, there's a blue-haired demon wrapped in a coat, with an overnight bag at her feet. She licks the blood off her crimson-and-black-splatered hands like it's no big deal, and tries to ignore the black blood running down her legs

Comments

[weareshadows]

'round the front of the hotel, a sleek black sedan has pulled up and been turned over to a valet for parking. Out of it came four people, and of those four Leona and one of her bodymen have already gone inside. Sure, Indy has the keycards, but there are ways to get around locks if one has a good pool of talent, and Leona would prefer to take a look at the damage before dealing with the employee who caused it.

That's not to say she's just going to leave Indy on her lonesome, of course. Adonis is coming round the alley accompanied by a Glaysa.

Just in case.

The glays takes up residence at the mouth of the alley, leaning back against the wall and lighting a cigarette, perfect faux-casual. Adonis wanders in, a computer bag slung over his shoulder, though this one contains not a laptop but a light trenchcoat and a carton of wet wipes which he pulls out and tosses, idly, from hand to hand before offering them as he draws near.

"Ms. Jones?"

[deepestindigo]

What's left upstairs might be telling. Indy's client, someone she's seen before several times, is torn up -- there's an arm on one side of the room, still clutching a black-encrusted straight razor in one hand, and internal organs everywhere. Usually when Indy's had to deal with a problem client, there are bones and a few bloodstains and not much else, but this time, it's just carnage. There are coils of rope everywhere, some broken, and one snapped-off bedpost. There's also a pair of shoes with ridiculously high heels lying on the floor, in one of the few spots that's not splattered in red and black

[weareshadows]

Adonis' nose wrinkles. His sense of smell isn't as good as some behemoths', and it's definitely not as good when he's not in full-out behemoth form, but the girl's a walking poster for something splatterpunk and heavily rated

[deepestindigo]

"...'kay. It would help. The lying down. I think. Thanks."

Indy's trying to remember how much blood you can lose before you die. It seems like this would be a useful thing to know, as while the puddle beneath her isn't that big, for a puddle of blood, there's more of her blood upstairs.

She needs that blood.

Still, there's only so long she can lean against a wall, so after a somewhat more thorough wiping, she looks up at Adonis again. "Little bit of help? Please?"

[sinsofskin]

Adonis snorts. "Right. You just hang on, girl," he says, and steps forward and all but bundles her up to carry her back toward the sedan.

...which is about when Leona comes sweeping into the alley, sans her other two bodymen. She's holding the client's straight razor in one hand testing its edge against her thumb, and as soon as she sees Indy, her face goes somewhere between appraising and sympathetic.

"Tearing into the repeat business," she says, flicking the razor at the Glays in the alley. She jumps to, opening the backseat to allow Adonis access. "Indy, doll," and her voice is all sugar-sweet and dark as the blood on the concrete, "I wish you'd left some for me. Tell me he deserved it."