the door swings open to award them with an unexpected sight.
they get an eyeful of smoke which is almost-familiar, a tangling of hellfire and brimstone that makes their nose wrinkle in automatic disdain, but does little to shake the unwavering half-moon of their too-bright grin. their gaze flickers from the demon’s face to her fingers, to the cold-bright sheen of the machete clutched white-knuckled in her hand. it lingers there for half a moment; twists to meet her eyes with one of their well-sculpted brows delicately lofted in outright disbelief, some measure of amused bewilderment that drags a raucous snort from their black nostrils. “a machete? really? we’re almost insulted.”
unfolding from where they’d been leaned casually against the doorframe, they step into the room with hands tucked languidly into their pockets and posture easily loose, as if they perceived no danger before them at all. the spectacle that greets them is a delectable one and their jaws part in a peal of delighted laughter at the coiled warlock on the floor, eyes curling wickedly. “oh, my. our blood has done a number on you, hasn’t it? what a treat this is! a poor infected firestarter and his —” their gaze slides, serpentine, to direct an unwavering stare at the woman. “— artist, we assume? a pleasure. we’re the l̳͝e̡̒v͔̽i̓ͅà̺t̼̆h̞͠à͉n͔͐.̟̄”
She heard Leo’s voice, registered what he said, and knew he was right. There was no other way they could have been found. Her temptation to glance back at Leo was quelled by the Leviathan’s voice. She hated the way it sounded, the fear it brought in her. Hated being scared. Her grip on the machete tightened, angling it away from her body.
Where did I put that stupid borax, she thought.
Sliding her foot a little, she positioned herself between the thing at the door and Leo. Part of her had counted on his help but in his condition she wasn’t sure how much help he actually would be. It made her angry, that they could do that just with a little blood. But anger was good, it dampened the fear a little, allowed her to straighten her shoulders.
“I can’t say it’s a pleasure. What do you want—?”
Not that she didn’t already know.
He could not hear her remarks due to the howling, the sluggishness that made him want to lie down and never have to open his eyes again, but he fought it. Fought it like he fought his nature, his brash tendencies, and his temper. Perhaps he needed to uncage those, for the sake of the promise he had made to Mic. They were going to fight this with Borax and a machete. He could see the dull glint of the machete in her hand–but where was the Borax.
There.
Behind the couch away from their view. Of course the bottle was plastic, so that would not work to his advantage. He pushed himself to a sitting position, and tried to gain his bearings. At this point, though, he had become twitchy and spaced out. Snap out of it, you oaf!
