(no subject)
Who: Devin Kuhl (BLUEBEARD) and Jasper Reynard (MR FOX)
What: What happens when two aristocratic killers have a conflict of interests? Crossover showdown from hell, is what.
When: After this exchange.
Where: Her apartment.
Rating: Rated R for violence, language, and sheer creepy.
REYNARD: The wonderful thing about money is that it can buy you anything -- including discreetly quiet drivers. Reynard didn't always require a chauffeur, but tonight necessitated it: he needed his hands steady for carrying the old-fashioned leather carrier bag, and for counting out slim steel knives with even slimmer black handles. High carbon steel scalpels and lancets. A small personal collection gathered over the years from small specialty shops and medical stocking companies. This plan had come half-formed to him while reading back through the compendium's later pages -- there were things to be said for territorialism, and the fierce, almost nauseating possessiveness that drove most of charming young Mr. Fox's actions. His women were his. No other tale ever stepped into his story, and no other tale usurped the right to fuck with what was unquestioningly and permanently his.
Connections were useful, and he had no end of connections willing to drop him Devin Kuhl's private address for the erasure of a favour. It turned out that the author lived in a particularly fanciable loft apartment. It also turned out that her neighbours in the building were lax about letting in a man in a suit with a winning, apologetic smile.
It did not take long for the buzzer at Devin's door to sound.
DEVIN: It had been a couple of days since the height of the Ripper thing that had everybody talking, and the high was starting to wear off for Devin. She wasn't glued to the Compendiums anymore, reading page after page and smirking ever-so-much. In fact, she spent most of her time working, the creative flow finding her again and helping her turn out page after page. Pretty good shit, too, in Devin's opinion. That was where this particular evening found her - on the couch, fingers glued to the laptop, some old Queen playing on the stereo. Who knew Bohemian Rhapsody would be her guilty pleasure song?
Generally, Devin didn't get company. Not even on Friday nights. Funny how something like being the prime suspect in a murder investigation can totally ruin your social life. Could have been Bob, though, at the door. She had given him a free pass to stop by whenever he wanted. If it was a reporter, she was going to punch their face in and then call the police. She closed her laptop, set it down on the couch, and stood up. She didn't bother checking the peephole - mostly out of arrogance, self-assuredness - before flinging the door open, looking out.
She didn't quite flinch, though she did hint at surprise for a moment. It was in a twitch, right around the mouth. "Can I help you?" she asked. It was a much nicer alternative to what she was about to say ("who the fuck are you?") before she'd felt that familiar Tale Tingle.
REYNARD: It was that familiar ripple down his spine, and that brief leaden feeling in his stomach, that told him he actually had a tale on his hands. Her face looked slightly familiar, which Jasper attributed to online newsfeeds and local articles about her arrest. Good. Still more likely that he'd made his way to the right apartment. There was no physical guarantee that the dark-haired, tattooed and pierced woman in front of him really was responsible for the mailed threats to Rose and Jess -- but she'd taken the praise by her own admission, and that was a reliable enough truth, by his standards.
"Devin Kuhl?"
To his credit, Reynard even smiled, all toothy and cheerful, the bag dangling from his left hand. Door-to-door salesman from hell.
DEVIN: For Devin, it felt like her stomach was flip-flopping. Narrowing her eyes just a little bit, she gave him a once-over - not bad, but who the fuck is he? - before nodding. There was a sort of aura to Devin Kuhl that tended to sweep over a person, when they got close to her. There was a certain amount of unease; used to be that she had a blue beard, in the Tale, that freaked people out and drove them away. Now, it was just a feeling, a sense.
"What?" she asked, shoulders squaring just slightly. Something felt off. Generally, when she got near a person she felt like a predator, taking stock of potential future prey. This was very different from that.
REYNARD: Oh, he could feel it. It was like a crawling weight that tried to knock him off-balance. But having known his own share of witches and magicians over the years, Reynard was well-versed in ignoring that prickling unease between his shoulderblades. Instead, he said hello. And then took a step into the apartment, muscling Devin back through the doorway -- and then another step, and another, another, and then he was assessing the inside of the room and the nearest flat surfaces and angled spaces to take advantage of. His fingers itched for the knife, but his expression was oddly cold, and his tone detached. Invading personal space, but not a direct threat. Not yet.
"Mr. Fox. We were just writing to each other, I believe."
DEVIN: Well, she had to admit: he had balls. Which was something that Devin could appreciate, having a huge pair of them herself. Her jaw set, and she took two big steps backward when Reynard came in, moving back before he touched her. It was unsettling, something that most people would have felt threatened by. Devin wasn't most people, though, of course. Unsettling was a good thing, for her. She took it as a volley.
"Mr. Fox," she echoed him, lifting a hand to rub the back of her neck, scratching at inked skin. "What the fuck are you doing here?" she blurted out, eyebrows raised. She looked curious, bordering on amused. "Fucking impolite to come without asking. I might've been entertaining guests," she said, tone indicating that it was a joke of some kind. Devin didn't entertain guests so much as she did tolerate them.
REYNARD: He chuckled, with an indulgent shake of his head. Memories flickered. "Oh, no. I don't quite like entertaining guests. Fancy dinner parties never worked out well for me."
Despite his strangely aloof behaviour -- as comfortable in this surreal situation as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, as if calling on complete strangers at night was perfectly normal -- there was still an erratic edge to Reynard's thinking tonight. Far too many memories were bubbling up, and more vividly than they had in years. Perhaps it was the close proximity to Bluebeard; perhaps it was the sordid mission he'd chosen; perhaps it was the fact that he'd finally openly admitted to his tale. For whatever reason, the story was alive and waking in his mind, and the doctor found himself thinking more and more like Fox rather than Reynard.
"I'm afraid you'll have to forgive my impoliteness, and for coming uninvited. But, see, there's a certain problem: you've already done it." Another grin, all gritted teeth this time. "You've appeared. Uninvited. They may have been yours a century ago, but those girls do not belong to you -- you're not Jack the Ripper today, my friend."
He rolled the word on his tongue for a moment. "Friend. Associate. Comrade in arms."
The carefully-negotiated calm of his voice was, slowly, starting to shatter. Mr. Fox was not pleased.
DEVIN: This was unexpected. She'd known people would be upset, of course. She'd known that, if the wrong people learned who she was, she'd have a pack of rabid do-gooders on her ass before she could count to two. That much, she expected. This sort of visit resulting from it, though, she'd never imagined happening. It caught her off-guard - she pushed her unease aside and leaned against the wall beside her entryway, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Oh, I don't know. I like to think that if I eviscerated them a couple of lifetimes ago, we still have a connection," she didn't bother hiding her smirk. "Fucking poetic, if you ask me. Carve out a chick's womb and that sort of thing forges some bonds." Her chuckle was a little bit dark. She didn't feel threatened in the slightest; that might've been foolish cockiness. After all, Bluebeard had never imagined his wife's brothers would come decapitate him, either.
REYNARD: They were similar spirits in their iron-hard cockiness, too. Fox's downfall had always come at the hands of a nosy prying bold Lady Mary, and in wide searing public -- here, in closed quarters, between one man and one woman, he felt assured and in control. The private sphere always was his very favourite when it came to this.
"All the more reason to close your book and try out some fresh blood instead. Their tale is done. Over with. Someone else's turn to toe the line with them."
DEVIN: Devin suddenly laughed, shaking her head and covering her mouth with her hand. "Are you trying to tell me you think you should get them?" If anyone believed that women couldn't be mysoginists, they hadn't met Devin yet. She still talked like a male, a male who killed women for fun. She didn't put a very high worth on her own gender. "Fuck off. I had them first. Plenty of bitches in this city."
She raised her chin a bit, defiantly, giving Reynard a 'what now?' type of look.
REYNARD: His gaze locked firmly on Devin's, grey eyes narrowing to meet her green. He still couldn't shake that feeling of knowing -- this wasn't just a meeting of surgeon and writer, of two lopsided human beings from different corners of New York. This was the meeting of two wholly independent tales born from the same blood-soaked concept, and on his end, Reynard knew that he did not enjoy competition. It wasn't even the women, as such -- it was the woman.
So he said so.
"I'm not interested in your pickings. I am not angling for your leftovers. I could give a fuck about your victims in general. Take Rose and cut her open from cunt to eyeballs if it makes you feel any better, and I'll have a good laugh about it and commend your work." There was steel in his voice now, a growing forcefulness behind each word, because the chilly exterior was finally breaking and this was as close as he had ever gotten to impassioned rage --
"But leave. Jessica Winters. To me."
DEVIN: Devin certainly enjoyed the challenge. This made her day far more exciting. For a moment, she reveled in the thought of cutting Rose Bloom open. All the way up the middle. Last time, she'd taken Mary Kelly's heart. Rose Bloom, on the other hand, was rumoured not to have one. Maybe she'd take her womb this time, like she had Katherine the first time around. It'd be almost poetic. No one ever wanted Rose Bloom to use her uterus, anyway. Might as well carve it out of her.
Devin wasn't aware of the smile she got on her face when she mulled these sorts of things over, or the way her pulse quickened, her breathing deepened. It was exciting to think about. Reynard's demand made her attention snap back to the present situation. She leveled her gaze on him, raising her eyebrows. "Have you had her in the past?" she asked him, curiously. "I'm just wondering if she's the same every time. Last time I cut her open, the sounds she made..." she shook her head a little bit, smirking that smirk again and sighing. Ah, fond memories. "Got me off for weeks."
REYNARD: Normally, that wicked little smile and her subsequent words should have creeped a man out. But Reynard was finding himself more and more at home in this situation -- a voice in the corner of his mind (not his conscience, no, the very opposite) agreed with her, connected with her, knew exactly what she was talking about. And for the first time in a very long time, he was not ignoring that voice.
"Never had her," he answered, almost breezily. He had dropped the bag next to the door by now, and crossed his own arms, partly mirroring Devin's stance and partly building himself into a wall of angles and limbs.
"I only ever do one at a time. Meticulous. Slow. I'm getting her to trust me."
DEVIN: Chuckling a little, darkly, Devin nodded, licking her lips. Nearly everything about her body language screamed predator. Birds of a feather; it'd been a long time since she'd felt a hundred percent free to let Bluebeard out. Yes, on a daily basis she was holding him in, quite a lot. And people still told her she was creepy. "That's the best way to do it," she agreed. "They get this look in their eye. Shock and horror and the betrayal just makes it sweeter." A pause, and she glanced upward, remembering. "You can just tell they're thinking How could he do this to me?."
The only unease she felt was because of her body - it being the first time Bluebeard had ever been born a woman, it felt deeply wrong. Like she wasn't really sure if she should be wanting to take her own head off. It was a strange transition to make and now - especially now, when she felt such a strong connection to Him - made her skin crawl. Her stance of arms crossed took a slightly more feminine edge without her meaning for it to, shoulders hunching in a show of discomfort.
REYNARD: He was silent for a moment, his expression carefully blank and his look inscrutable. This conversation was becoming very nearly almost cordial. And perhaps, with enough talking, he could use charm and wit and well-phrased arguments to convince Devin into leaving one of her women alone. But then again, Reynard was a fan of the quick method. Gradual convincing took so very long, and all of his patience was already being squandered and thrown in Jess' direction. After arguing with her over the journals earlier, there was very little left in Reynard but a slow-simmering anger.
Occam's razor. All other things being equal, the simplest solution is the best.
So on the flip of a coin, right when their conversation had almost started approaching comraderie, in the very second that her composure slipped ever so slightly--
Reynard moved. A scalpel appeared from his coatsleeve and his hand gripped it with the unwavering calm that only a surgeon could master -- and it was so convenient that she'd already positioned herself against the wall, because now Reynard had slammed the door shut and moved in close, an arm pinned against her shoulder, and the blade rising for her throat. There had been no warning. No indication.
DEVIN: She'd never seen it coming, of course. Though, she chastised herself - head pressed back against the wall and muscles in her throat tensing at the thread of cold, sharp steel - she should have. Devin was a smart person. Shrewd. She should've known that it was coming, because that's what she would've done if someone was interfering with what she wanted.
Her eyes were a bit darker than usual when they locked onto Reynard's. She didn't try to push him back, knowing that she wouldn't be able to. He was much stronger than she was. So this was what it felt like. "How dare you," she said, voice little more than a hiss. She didn't like being on this side of the blade. Though, she did approve of the choice. Scalpel was dignified, smart and classy. Been her own weapon of choice once or twice. So she knew how smoothly it cut through skin. Especially the thin skin right over her jugular. She swallowed. "You wouldn't kill me," she added, voice sounding much, much more sure than her thoughts.
REYNARD: "Would I? Wouldn't I?" The gravelly thrum in his voice was coming out more than ever, and he definitely sounded amused. The bastard was enjoying this. Practically every tale villain under the thumb of the Atheneum knew restraint and self-control; but few of them ever had the opportunities to let their bloody pages unfold the way they used to.
"I take them emotionally, these days. And Jess Winters has been an incredibly difficult fucking catch to make, and I'm becoming more and more of the opinion that she's worth killing for. It all used to be bones and blood, in the good old days."
The flat of the scalpel pressed just a little harder -- a twist would do it.
"And I think you and I are the old-fashioned type."
DEVIN: Part of Devin hated this. It was the bigger part, the part with Bluebeard fully at the helm. Being made to feel like a victim, having to feel what all of the women he'd killed felt. The helplessness. It made her temper simmer and boil under the surface, and made a fine quiver work its way up her spine. The smaller part, the part that was purely Devin Kuhl, felt a strange surge of admiration. Those were some balls on this man. No one had ever done that to her before, and maybe it wasn't all anger or fear that made her knees weak.
In the end, her sense of survival - the one thing that had kept her from killing, during this lifetime - won out. She swallowed again, throat tensing even more, as though preparing herself for the possibility that this would end badly. "I'll leave Winters alone," she yielded. "She's yours."
REYNARD: He practically breathed it into her ear: "Good."
And Reynard savoured that thrill of triumph for a moment, letting it wash over him in all its beautiful entirety. But there is such a thing as a job done properly, and so, for good measure, his fingers trailed over bare skin even as he pulled his hand back from her throat. Her wifebeater shirt was masculine indeed, but it also meant she was more exposed -- and it meant it was easy for him to shift from throat to collarbone instead, the scalpel nicking the skin ever so delicately as it traced its way to the neckline of her shirt.
It was not a deep cut; in fact, it was about the very lightest of pressure necessary to even break skin and draw blood. He wasn't marking Devin as his own, no. But it was a reminder. A faint spiderweb-thin scar meant she would remember him.
The man withdrew, every inch away meaning another inch of personal space given. The macho posturing was officially over. Reynard even smirked, suddenly back to eerily calm politeness -- he suspected that under different circumstances, they could have gotten along.
"A pleasure meeting you."
DEVIN: It wasn't that no one had ever spilled her blood before. All of her lives had ended in execution or an early death. But no one had ever enjoyed it. No one had ever done it because they wanted to. It had always been a punishment. This was something different. It sort of felt like the wind had gotten knocked out of her. She needed to strike back, to come at him in retaliation. For her own sense of ego and pride. But not tonight. Slow and steady would win this; rash action was not the way to go with someone who was, for all intents and purposes, her equal.
"Wish I could say the same," she spat, moving away from the wall at the first chance she had to. She didn't give him the satisfaction of even glancing toward that long cut, even though a drip of blood disappeared down her chest, wet and sticky and vaguely uncomfortable. She didn't turn her back on him quite, on her way toward the bar she had set up in a corner of her living room. "I'd offer you a drink, but I doubt you'll be staying." It surprised her, vaguely, that she hadn't kicked him out. Then again, maybe slicing her open wasn't a bad enough offense. She'd gotten the message - it was a warning, she heeded it. Stay away from Winters. That much, she could handle. Didn't mean she would stay away from Reynard.
REYNARD: "Not tonight. Perhaps some other time."
He wasn't even certain where that answer came from. Its origin presumably lay in some deep well of damning confidence and cockiness -- and Reynard pondered what it meant, even as he pulled a white handkerchief from his other pocket and methodically wiped off the scalpel before putting it away. Most people spilled coffee on their first meeting together, not blood.
But then again, they weren't most people, and for appearance's sake, he looked unperturbed as he picked up his black bag again (the bag which had been, thankfully, unnecessary). Business was done and concluded. And as Reynard relaxed slightly, he finally noticed the Queen buzzing over the stereo -- all other sounds had become muted and insignificant during their encounter, background noise draining away.
"Nice music taste. I'll let myself out."
DEVIN: Devin nodded - and getting a drink had given her the opportunity to distance herself from him, put an entire living room between them. She had to retreat, lick her wounds, take the time to properly think about her next move. But she knew that there would be one. "I'll be seeing you," she promised him, voice trained to sound cool and calm and casual, even though those things were definitely not what she felt.
She went right for the wine, pouring a large glass of it, her focus on Reynard and his departure from across the room. She watched him, almost glowering. "Have a good night, Mr. Fox."
REYNARD: "Good evening, Bluebeard." He smiled again, before closing the door after himself.
Stalking down the hallways and out of the building, the man dialled his chauffeur's number and idly contemplated what he'd just done: forced the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper to back down, at least in one respect. The only question still bothering him was why. Territorialism? Possessiveness? Because only he was allowed to make Jess squirm on sleepless nights? Because of her horde of knights in all their gleaming armour, and his need to best them as powerfully as possible?
All of the above.
What: What happens when two aristocratic killers have a conflict of interests? Crossover showdown from hell, is what.
When: After this exchange.
Where: Her apartment.
Rating: Rated R for violence, language, and sheer creepy.
REYNARD: The wonderful thing about money is that it can buy you anything -- including discreetly quiet drivers. Reynard didn't always require a chauffeur, but tonight necessitated it: he needed his hands steady for carrying the old-fashioned leather carrier bag, and for counting out slim steel knives with even slimmer black handles. High carbon steel scalpels and lancets. A small personal collection gathered over the years from small specialty shops and medical stocking companies. This plan had come half-formed to him while reading back through the compendium's later pages -- there were things to be said for territorialism, and the fierce, almost nauseating possessiveness that drove most of charming young Mr. Fox's actions. His women were his. No other tale ever stepped into his story, and no other tale usurped the right to fuck with what was unquestioningly and permanently his.
Connections were useful, and he had no end of connections willing to drop him Devin Kuhl's private address for the erasure of a favour. It turned out that the author lived in a particularly fanciable loft apartment. It also turned out that her neighbours in the building were lax about letting in a man in a suit with a winning, apologetic smile.
It did not take long for the buzzer at Devin's door to sound.
DEVIN: It had been a couple of days since the height of the Ripper thing that had everybody talking, and the high was starting to wear off for Devin. She wasn't glued to the Compendiums anymore, reading page after page and smirking ever-so-much. In fact, she spent most of her time working, the creative flow finding her again and helping her turn out page after page. Pretty good shit, too, in Devin's opinion. That was where this particular evening found her - on the couch, fingers glued to the laptop, some old Queen playing on the stereo. Who knew Bohemian Rhapsody would be her guilty pleasure song?
Generally, Devin didn't get company. Not even on Friday nights. Funny how something like being the prime suspect in a murder investigation can totally ruin your social life. Could have been Bob, though, at the door. She had given him a free pass to stop by whenever he wanted. If it was a reporter, she was going to punch their face in and then call the police. She closed her laptop, set it down on the couch, and stood up. She didn't bother checking the peephole - mostly out of arrogance, self-assuredness - before flinging the door open, looking out.
She didn't quite flinch, though she did hint at surprise for a moment. It was in a twitch, right around the mouth. "Can I help you?" she asked. It was a much nicer alternative to what she was about to say ("who the fuck are you?") before she'd felt that familiar Tale Tingle.
REYNARD: It was that familiar ripple down his spine, and that brief leaden feeling in his stomach, that told him he actually had a tale on his hands. Her face looked slightly familiar, which Jasper attributed to online newsfeeds and local articles about her arrest. Good. Still more likely that he'd made his way to the right apartment. There was no physical guarantee that the dark-haired, tattooed and pierced woman in front of him really was responsible for the mailed threats to Rose and Jess -- but she'd taken the praise by her own admission, and that was a reliable enough truth, by his standards.
"Devin Kuhl?"
To his credit, Reynard even smiled, all toothy and cheerful, the bag dangling from his left hand. Door-to-door salesman from hell.
DEVIN: For Devin, it felt like her stomach was flip-flopping. Narrowing her eyes just a little bit, she gave him a once-over - not bad, but who the fuck is he? - before nodding. There was a sort of aura to Devin Kuhl that tended to sweep over a person, when they got close to her. There was a certain amount of unease; used to be that she had a blue beard, in the Tale, that freaked people out and drove them away. Now, it was just a feeling, a sense.
"What?" she asked, shoulders squaring just slightly. Something felt off. Generally, when she got near a person she felt like a predator, taking stock of potential future prey. This was very different from that.
REYNARD: Oh, he could feel it. It was like a crawling weight that tried to knock him off-balance. But having known his own share of witches and magicians over the years, Reynard was well-versed in ignoring that prickling unease between his shoulderblades. Instead, he said hello. And then took a step into the apartment, muscling Devin back through the doorway -- and then another step, and another, another, and then he was assessing the inside of the room and the nearest flat surfaces and angled spaces to take advantage of. His fingers itched for the knife, but his expression was oddly cold, and his tone detached. Invading personal space, but not a direct threat. Not yet.
"Mr. Fox. We were just writing to each other, I believe."
DEVIN: Well, she had to admit: he had balls. Which was something that Devin could appreciate, having a huge pair of them herself. Her jaw set, and she took two big steps backward when Reynard came in, moving back before he touched her. It was unsettling, something that most people would have felt threatened by. Devin wasn't most people, though, of course. Unsettling was a good thing, for her. She took it as a volley.
"Mr. Fox," she echoed him, lifting a hand to rub the back of her neck, scratching at inked skin. "What the fuck are you doing here?" she blurted out, eyebrows raised. She looked curious, bordering on amused. "Fucking impolite to come without asking. I might've been entertaining guests," she said, tone indicating that it was a joke of some kind. Devin didn't entertain guests so much as she did tolerate them.
REYNARD: He chuckled, with an indulgent shake of his head. Memories flickered. "Oh, no. I don't quite like entertaining guests. Fancy dinner parties never worked out well for me."
Despite his strangely aloof behaviour -- as comfortable in this surreal situation as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, as if calling on complete strangers at night was perfectly normal -- there was still an erratic edge to Reynard's thinking tonight. Far too many memories were bubbling up, and more vividly than they had in years. Perhaps it was the close proximity to Bluebeard; perhaps it was the sordid mission he'd chosen; perhaps it was the fact that he'd finally openly admitted to his tale. For whatever reason, the story was alive and waking in his mind, and the doctor found himself thinking more and more like Fox rather than Reynard.
"I'm afraid you'll have to forgive my impoliteness, and for coming uninvited. But, see, there's a certain problem: you've already done it." Another grin, all gritted teeth this time. "You've appeared. Uninvited. They may have been yours a century ago, but those girls do not belong to you -- you're not Jack the Ripper today, my friend."
He rolled the word on his tongue for a moment. "Friend. Associate. Comrade in arms."
The carefully-negotiated calm of his voice was, slowly, starting to shatter. Mr. Fox was not pleased.
DEVIN: This was unexpected. She'd known people would be upset, of course. She'd known that, if the wrong people learned who she was, she'd have a pack of rabid do-gooders on her ass before she could count to two. That much, she expected. This sort of visit resulting from it, though, she'd never imagined happening. It caught her off-guard - she pushed her unease aside and leaned against the wall beside her entryway, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Oh, I don't know. I like to think that if I eviscerated them a couple of lifetimes ago, we still have a connection," she didn't bother hiding her smirk. "Fucking poetic, if you ask me. Carve out a chick's womb and that sort of thing forges some bonds." Her chuckle was a little bit dark. She didn't feel threatened in the slightest; that might've been foolish cockiness. After all, Bluebeard had never imagined his wife's brothers would come decapitate him, either.
REYNARD: They were similar spirits in their iron-hard cockiness, too. Fox's downfall had always come at the hands of a nosy prying bold Lady Mary, and in wide searing public -- here, in closed quarters, between one man and one woman, he felt assured and in control. The private sphere always was his very favourite when it came to this.
"All the more reason to close your book and try out some fresh blood instead. Their tale is done. Over with. Someone else's turn to toe the line with them."
DEVIN: Devin suddenly laughed, shaking her head and covering her mouth with her hand. "Are you trying to tell me you think you should get them?" If anyone believed that women couldn't be mysoginists, they hadn't met Devin yet. She still talked like a male, a male who killed women for fun. She didn't put a very high worth on her own gender. "Fuck off. I had them first. Plenty of bitches in this city."
She raised her chin a bit, defiantly, giving Reynard a 'what now?' type of look.
REYNARD: His gaze locked firmly on Devin's, grey eyes narrowing to meet her green. He still couldn't shake that feeling of knowing -- this wasn't just a meeting of surgeon and writer, of two lopsided human beings from different corners of New York. This was the meeting of two wholly independent tales born from the same blood-soaked concept, and on his end, Reynard knew that he did not enjoy competition. It wasn't even the women, as such -- it was the woman.
So he said so.
"I'm not interested in your pickings. I am not angling for your leftovers. I could give a fuck about your victims in general. Take Rose and cut her open from cunt to eyeballs if it makes you feel any better, and I'll have a good laugh about it and commend your work." There was steel in his voice now, a growing forcefulness behind each word, because the chilly exterior was finally breaking and this was as close as he had ever gotten to impassioned rage --
"But leave. Jessica Winters. To me."
DEVIN: Devin certainly enjoyed the challenge. This made her day far more exciting. For a moment, she reveled in the thought of cutting Rose Bloom open. All the way up the middle. Last time, she'd taken Mary Kelly's heart. Rose Bloom, on the other hand, was rumoured not to have one. Maybe she'd take her womb this time, like she had Katherine the first time around. It'd be almost poetic. No one ever wanted Rose Bloom to use her uterus, anyway. Might as well carve it out of her.
Devin wasn't aware of the smile she got on her face when she mulled these sorts of things over, or the way her pulse quickened, her breathing deepened. It was exciting to think about. Reynard's demand made her attention snap back to the present situation. She leveled her gaze on him, raising her eyebrows. "Have you had her in the past?" she asked him, curiously. "I'm just wondering if she's the same every time. Last time I cut her open, the sounds she made..." she shook her head a little bit, smirking that smirk again and sighing. Ah, fond memories. "Got me off for weeks."
REYNARD: Normally, that wicked little smile and her subsequent words should have creeped a man out. But Reynard was finding himself more and more at home in this situation -- a voice in the corner of his mind (not his conscience, no, the very opposite) agreed with her, connected with her, knew exactly what she was talking about. And for the first time in a very long time, he was not ignoring that voice.
"Never had her," he answered, almost breezily. He had dropped the bag next to the door by now, and crossed his own arms, partly mirroring Devin's stance and partly building himself into a wall of angles and limbs.
"I only ever do one at a time. Meticulous. Slow. I'm getting her to trust me."
DEVIN: Chuckling a little, darkly, Devin nodded, licking her lips. Nearly everything about her body language screamed predator. Birds of a feather; it'd been a long time since she'd felt a hundred percent free to let Bluebeard out. Yes, on a daily basis she was holding him in, quite a lot. And people still told her she was creepy. "That's the best way to do it," she agreed. "They get this look in their eye. Shock and horror and the betrayal just makes it sweeter." A pause, and she glanced upward, remembering. "You can just tell they're thinking How could he do this to me?."
The only unease she felt was because of her body - it being the first time Bluebeard had ever been born a woman, it felt deeply wrong. Like she wasn't really sure if she should be wanting to take her own head off. It was a strange transition to make and now - especially now, when she felt such a strong connection to Him - made her skin crawl. Her stance of arms crossed took a slightly more feminine edge without her meaning for it to, shoulders hunching in a show of discomfort.
REYNARD: He was silent for a moment, his expression carefully blank and his look inscrutable. This conversation was becoming very nearly almost cordial. And perhaps, with enough talking, he could use charm and wit and well-phrased arguments to convince Devin into leaving one of her women alone. But then again, Reynard was a fan of the quick method. Gradual convincing took so very long, and all of his patience was already being squandered and thrown in Jess' direction. After arguing with her over the journals earlier, there was very little left in Reynard but a slow-simmering anger.
Occam's razor. All other things being equal, the simplest solution is the best.
So on the flip of a coin, right when their conversation had almost started approaching comraderie, in the very second that her composure slipped ever so slightly--
Reynard moved. A scalpel appeared from his coatsleeve and his hand gripped it with the unwavering calm that only a surgeon could master -- and it was so convenient that she'd already positioned herself against the wall, because now Reynard had slammed the door shut and moved in close, an arm pinned against her shoulder, and the blade rising for her throat. There had been no warning. No indication.
DEVIN: She'd never seen it coming, of course. Though, she chastised herself - head pressed back against the wall and muscles in her throat tensing at the thread of cold, sharp steel - she should have. Devin was a smart person. Shrewd. She should've known that it was coming, because that's what she would've done if someone was interfering with what she wanted.
Her eyes were a bit darker than usual when they locked onto Reynard's. She didn't try to push him back, knowing that she wouldn't be able to. He was much stronger than she was. So this was what it felt like. "How dare you," she said, voice little more than a hiss. She didn't like being on this side of the blade. Though, she did approve of the choice. Scalpel was dignified, smart and classy. Been her own weapon of choice once or twice. So she knew how smoothly it cut through skin. Especially the thin skin right over her jugular. She swallowed. "You wouldn't kill me," she added, voice sounding much, much more sure than her thoughts.
REYNARD: "Would I? Wouldn't I?" The gravelly thrum in his voice was coming out more than ever, and he definitely sounded amused. The bastard was enjoying this. Practically every tale villain under the thumb of the Atheneum knew restraint and self-control; but few of them ever had the opportunities to let their bloody pages unfold the way they used to.
"I take them emotionally, these days. And Jess Winters has been an incredibly difficult fucking catch to make, and I'm becoming more and more of the opinion that she's worth killing for. It all used to be bones and blood, in the good old days."
The flat of the scalpel pressed just a little harder -- a twist would do it.
"And I think you and I are the old-fashioned type."
DEVIN: Part of Devin hated this. It was the bigger part, the part with Bluebeard fully at the helm. Being made to feel like a victim, having to feel what all of the women he'd killed felt. The helplessness. It made her temper simmer and boil under the surface, and made a fine quiver work its way up her spine. The smaller part, the part that was purely Devin Kuhl, felt a strange surge of admiration. Those were some balls on this man. No one had ever done that to her before, and maybe it wasn't all anger or fear that made her knees weak.
In the end, her sense of survival - the one thing that had kept her from killing, during this lifetime - won out. She swallowed again, throat tensing even more, as though preparing herself for the possibility that this would end badly. "I'll leave Winters alone," she yielded. "She's yours."
REYNARD: He practically breathed it into her ear: "Good."
And Reynard savoured that thrill of triumph for a moment, letting it wash over him in all its beautiful entirety. But there is such a thing as a job done properly, and so, for good measure, his fingers trailed over bare skin even as he pulled his hand back from her throat. Her wifebeater shirt was masculine indeed, but it also meant she was more exposed -- and it meant it was easy for him to shift from throat to collarbone instead, the scalpel nicking the skin ever so delicately as it traced its way to the neckline of her shirt.
It was not a deep cut; in fact, it was about the very lightest of pressure necessary to even break skin and draw blood. He wasn't marking Devin as his own, no. But it was a reminder. A faint spiderweb-thin scar meant she would remember him.
The man withdrew, every inch away meaning another inch of personal space given. The macho posturing was officially over. Reynard even smirked, suddenly back to eerily calm politeness -- he suspected that under different circumstances, they could have gotten along.
"A pleasure meeting you."
DEVIN: It wasn't that no one had ever spilled her blood before. All of her lives had ended in execution or an early death. But no one had ever enjoyed it. No one had ever done it because they wanted to. It had always been a punishment. This was something different. It sort of felt like the wind had gotten knocked out of her. She needed to strike back, to come at him in retaliation. For her own sense of ego and pride. But not tonight. Slow and steady would win this; rash action was not the way to go with someone who was, for all intents and purposes, her equal.
"Wish I could say the same," she spat, moving away from the wall at the first chance she had to. She didn't give him the satisfaction of even glancing toward that long cut, even though a drip of blood disappeared down her chest, wet and sticky and vaguely uncomfortable. She didn't turn her back on him quite, on her way toward the bar she had set up in a corner of her living room. "I'd offer you a drink, but I doubt you'll be staying." It surprised her, vaguely, that she hadn't kicked him out. Then again, maybe slicing her open wasn't a bad enough offense. She'd gotten the message - it was a warning, she heeded it. Stay away from Winters. That much, she could handle. Didn't mean she would stay away from Reynard.
REYNARD: "Not tonight. Perhaps some other time."
He wasn't even certain where that answer came from. Its origin presumably lay in some deep well of damning confidence and cockiness -- and Reynard pondered what it meant, even as he pulled a white handkerchief from his other pocket and methodically wiped off the scalpel before putting it away. Most people spilled coffee on their first meeting together, not blood.
But then again, they weren't most people, and for appearance's sake, he looked unperturbed as he picked up his black bag again (the bag which had been, thankfully, unnecessary). Business was done and concluded. And as Reynard relaxed slightly, he finally noticed the Queen buzzing over the stereo -- all other sounds had become muted and insignificant during their encounter, background noise draining away.
"Nice music taste. I'll let myself out."
DEVIN: Devin nodded - and getting a drink had given her the opportunity to distance herself from him, put an entire living room between them. She had to retreat, lick her wounds, take the time to properly think about her next move. But she knew that there would be one. "I'll be seeing you," she promised him, voice trained to sound cool and calm and casual, even though those things were definitely not what she felt.
She went right for the wine, pouring a large glass of it, her focus on Reynard and his departure from across the room. She watched him, almost glowering. "Have a good night, Mr. Fox."
REYNARD: "Good evening, Bluebeard." He smiled again, before closing the door after himself.
Stalking down the hallways and out of the building, the man dialled his chauffeur's number and idly contemplated what he'd just done: forced the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper to back down, at least in one respect. The only question still bothering him was why. Territorialism? Possessiveness? Because only he was allowed to make Jess squirm on sleepless nights? Because of her horde of knights in all their gleaming armour, and his need to best them as powerfully as possible?
All of the above.