First and last lines: Good Omens, War/Famine
The witness protection program was beginning to bore her.
Too easy. Too clean. Execution killings never interested her unless they inspired. Blood on a sword and horror on the face of a man in power, angered millions who hadn't the first idea of where it had started - that was where she ought to be.
"You could sit, you know."
He was watching her over steepled fingers, amused, the slightest twist of his lips framed neatly by a spare black beard.
She whirled about, scarlet hair flying, and glared at him for a moment before going back to pacing in front of the long window, slatted blinds imprisoning her in bars of light.
"It's all the same to you, isn't it?"
He lifted a slim black brow and pretended not to know what she meant. He's always liked how she looked when she was angry.
She was always angry.
"It's all the same because it's steady. You have entire countries to play with while I have centuries of skirmishes."
"It's hardly my fault. I worked hard for my countries while you were busy wheedling that ineffectual angel out of his sword."
Blaring car horns from below - two men, overcome with road rage, were brawling in the street. Her lips thinned, the slightest amount.
"It's just the Autumn," he told her. "Dying of the year. September is the dullest month. You'll come up with something."
She smiled, slowly, and ran her tongue across her teeth. Perhaps, in fact, she had. She sashayed across the room, and ran long fingers through his hair, and bit his lip until he bled, until he stared after her hungrily.
And then she left him. For an airline pilot.
Too easy. Too clean. Execution killings never interested her unless they inspired. Blood on a sword and horror on the face of a man in power, angered millions who hadn't the first idea of where it had started - that was where she ought to be.
"You could sit, you know."
He was watching her over steepled fingers, amused, the slightest twist of his lips framed neatly by a spare black beard.
She whirled about, scarlet hair flying, and glared at him for a moment before going back to pacing in front of the long window, slatted blinds imprisoning her in bars of light.
"It's all the same to you, isn't it?"
He lifted a slim black brow and pretended not to know what she meant. He's always liked how she looked when she was angry.
She was always angry.
"It's all the same because it's steady. You have entire countries to play with while I have centuries of skirmishes."
"It's hardly my fault. I worked hard for my countries while you were busy wheedling that ineffectual angel out of his sword."
Blaring car horns from below - two men, overcome with road rage, were brawling in the street. Her lips thinned, the slightest amount.
"It's just the Autumn," he told her. "Dying of the year. September is the dullest month. You'll come up with something."
She smiled, slowly, and ran her tongue across her teeth. Perhaps, in fact, she had. She sashayed across the room, and ran long fingers through his hair, and bit his lip until he bled, until he stared after her hungrily.
And then she left him. For an airline pilot.