tampered | Log: Complete

Log: Complete

When; Feb. 15 (night)
Rating; R for ruthless rot
Characters; Saya

voodoo_daddy
Summary; A weaver above the waters seeks the blood of an old voudun midnite.
Log;

He walked along the streets of a City he barely knew but knew it to be as old and as complex as the Bleed itself. Papa Midnite had grown tired of its novelty. There was little for him here that he couldn't get in New York City. Magic was in abundance (and used for the most inefficient reasons) and angels far more common than one could ever ask for. Further more, Gabriel here wasn't the snob from their homeworld, there were no chainsaws to speak of. No Constantine to speak of. That should have been a bloody blessing to Midnite, but the fact that the bad luck magician had touched ground here before left a sour taste in Midnite's mouth. It was as if the con man had dumped cold leftovers in his lap. That was a fucking insult to Papa Linton Midnite. He raised his chin, cigar lit to smoke away those thoughts. He wouldn't let Constantine get the best of him. After all, Papa had been tapping some of the finest magical property in the City. The werespider woman's vision had been his greatest discovery here. Anansi should be having a fit.

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She could see.

It was like a map, reading out. She knew that Light was wandering his living room, that Tony was crying himself to bed, and Papa, Papa Midnite, he was walking the streets like they were safe.

Things were never safe.

Saya was never offended, and she was not offended now. But she recognized mistakes when she made them, and mistakes had to be corrected. Things could be done. An Ananasi did not have much access to the power they held, but the little access she had let her know the truth about the place - how to cause true death, how to rid herself of a little problem.

She crossed her legs, primly, and looked out into the darkness. "Hello, Midnite."

Midnite cared not for any of these details. What the mundane did with their own lives was their own business as it was his self-proclaimed profession to reap the profits of it. He'd gained exposure to another world's magic through Tony Foster, a new worldly perspective through the Claymore Ophelia, but none of it had helped to establish his old business, his old name in New York. Midnite had taken years to build that reputation, through generations of slaves and the unslaved alike. Because of this, he too knew that things were never just safe.

"Saya," said the dark man, his voice cool and collected but his guard up. She had remarked on his blood the last time they spoke. His eyes focused on the source of his voice, deep in the shadows.

She was slim and short, tiny compared to most men. She did not look threatening, but her eyes could be, light brown and soft one moment and hard the next. She stepped forward, her cleavage low, her skirt shorter than usual, and her heels pulling her calves up.

She knew exactly how she appeared.

"Have you ever considered lightening your hair," she said blandly, reaching up to his hat. "You wear so much white."

She turned around and walked a few steps away. "It might suit you."

It wasn't a ruse, or a lie. They were words, unconnected, unthought. Her voice was precise, but she was a touch distracted. "You do know that I can get pregnant, too?"

As sultry as a high classed whore with the poison of a widow. He knew what she could do but not the extent of it. Midnite could certainly imagine it though, just as he imagined bending her over and pulling her underwear to the side. However her walk suggested otherwise. It was Saya's body language that briefly put him on edge. It was almost too easy.

He readjusted his hat over his shaved head.

"No I have not nor do I seek a need to resemble the devil," Midnite smirked. He never did like white men beyond their use as business partners and informants.

"Pregnancy, Papa," she said in a soft, insistent tone, in an attempt to turn his attention back to the topic. "Your son, a spider."

She wasn't pregnant. If Papa could sense beneath her skin, if he would touch her, he would feel it, but she could do the very little without touch to discern that. If he made the first motion to her, if he touched her first, she could pull him into the umbra without an issue. Fighting him into it was far too complicated now. Too complicated for this night.

She could see his suspicion, in a manner. She knew his desire. She felt her pheromone glands fill, and empty into the air, scentless but potent all at once.

He could sense it, her trickery, a metaphorical web from her namesake. But why? And did she think he had no qualms about cutting the wretched thing out? What Midnite didn't presume was that all Saya needed was a touch of skin.

"I heard you and I call it horseshit. I would have thought you sterile, Saya," he smirked, finger beckoning her to come closer to him. "I do not have any reason to protest aborting your sack of eggs if that were the case as well."

"Sterile." She paused and looked at him. "Do you think my race procreates through sheer accident, Papa? We are not allowed to be sterile." Sterility was reserved for the freaks, the abominations produced by the spiders who mated with another spider, not for her, never for her. "We're not allowed abortions, either."

That was true.

Of course, she had not stated that she actually was pregnant. Lies didn't serve her. She came closer to him, stopping straight in front of him, her eyes up towards his. One hand held a thread to the umbra, tight, like Wyatt had taught her, invisible to the untrained eye.

"An independent woman in her prime like you would not allow herself to conceive," Midnite remarked with a smirk, baring bright white teeth. His fingers touched her chin, taking a firm hold to tip it, like a gesture of control. "It would make a decent sacrifice nonetheless.

"No?"

She tugged back, hard, and the veil split around them. It took her too much energy to cross like this; it was a strange gift, the Push, instead of her usual crawl, and when they were through the gauntlet she tumbled back and vomited bits of herself onto the smooth, hazy ground of the umbra. Bits of her memory crawled away, then back towards her, but she was no longer human.

Her arms stretched as she got used, once more, to her war-form. A mage in the umbra would be quick work by banes, but not as quick as by paradox spirits. She was thankful she wasn't Viskr and stepped around him as graceful as a ballerina, each slender and slim leg precisely striking where the last one had lifted from.

"What--"

He stared as the real world tore apart for what was called the astral plane in his. Midnite's eyes narrowed, immediately recognizing the threat even as her defenses came down around him in large stealthy and deadly legs. Mages were easy meat in the umbra, but he was no standard mage. Here his body showed its true form, rotting flesh and old bones, old bones worked away by masters of white and black alike. Midnite had been aging since the 1700s; it showed itself clearly here. He could almost hear his beheaded sister calling.

"What have you done, woman," Papa growled, his eyes fixed on Saya to anticipate her next move.

He could burn her, he could give her cancer, he could rape her skull if they weren't on the astral plane. Here the creatures born of spirits beyond had power. Midnite had been born just a man.

Reflexively she opened her mouth to speak, but instead of a tongue there were only her thick, vicious fangs that dripped with venom - not the mild, diluted version she had injected in him earlier, but the nasty, deadly stuff - poison that could kill a vampire in fifteen seconds and a man in three.

She looked down at him; far down, from her vantage height of ten feet, and slammed one pointed leg next to his rotting corpse. Still beating heart, still working liver. She could see them through eight wide lenses that stacked were her eyes and forehead should be.

"Sssssshhhrraa...." she managed, but that didn't mean anything to him. She readjusted her fangs and tried again. "I haaaveeee trrrriejdd jouuu, Papa and jouu arej mine."

Old spirits ruled here, and there was a wraith close by. She wondered for a moment, as she scuttled towards him, reached for him, if it knew the not dead, not living man.

"Shit," he hissed when the leg speared him through the heart. He hadn't had the time to get out of her way, and fuck did it hurt. His corpse was impaled and stuck against what passed for the ground in the Umbra, but Midnite snarled, unfazed by his situation.

"Stupid woman, do you think you can kill me?"

She had contacted him to teach Foster, knowing his black secrets to share with a wizard aligned towards good. He wasn't that easy to kill; Constantine knew this. His fingers touched her leg, channeling an old god's fire from his body to hers though the flames themselves never appeared. Only smoke to the skin. Saya was large and armored though, and Midnite could feel the sickness in her poison stinging his chest from each drip.

The fact of the matter was she could murder him, but that didn't necessarily mean she could kill him.

Not kill. Murder. She wanted him more than dead, she wanted him gone, away, out of her life, cleaned up. She wanted him where Ananansa's eyes did not see, where the Weaver wove in madness but did not remember her. She wanted him where he would never see again into the magic she had gifted him, or remember what was between her legs.

She wanted him to forget her true name. His death could erase that, make him gone.

She felt the lick of flames and drew him up to eye level, quickly injecting him with enough to liquify those organs, to drink them like a human would suck the juice from an orange.

She felt the banes close but took her time, knowing he was still alive, knowing that it was painful, knowing that he could see each one of her light brown eyes, and the smile there.

Her other arm wound around his, pinning them close to his body. His blood was old and sanguine and tasted like her, that sweet sickly flavor of ripe and nercosy and rot.

There was the liver.

There was magic, too, but it escaped her, fleeing through the cracks of her lips and through the negative space, out into the deeper umbra that led into the Bleed.

All because he quipped on the noise. Fate was a cruel mistress, and sharp wit even crueler. Midnite however could understand that, though it didn't mean he'd lie down and take her beating over the tongue she seemed to covet just days ago.

He grunted when the poison entered, his voice rotting away like the dark flesh on his bones. Papa Midnite was dying and not dying per se. This realm was a strange one, what happened here was always up for argument, whether it was the Umbra or the astral plane. For the dark mage, it was where he kept his sister and where magic truly took revenge on men like Constantine and himself. But even since the 1700s, Papa Midnite was always one step ahead. His magic leaked away from every pore as Saya's venom turned his flesh into fluids.

"You... will not forget me," he rasped to her, smiling bone white teeth between sagging decay.

It was more than just the quip; it was more than just his tongue.

It was her mistake, and she would correct it. Once she was finished, once his body was dead, she spotted the bane coming and dropped it, sliding back through the gauntlet in her usual fashion, quietly and softly.

She tugged her coat around her and laughed into the air.

"But you will forget me."

And his body tasted of bark, of the trees in Jamaica and the roots in the monsoon waters. It was his breeding ground for magic, his origin, and she had a taste of it. Then no more. His husk was hers to consume, his husk in this world. Whether Midnite's death satisfied the rules to return or not was anyone's guess, but he was no longer in the City nor in the Umbra, at least not the material that made his true self. Barely human, more than dead.

Now, merely dinner.

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Log: Complete

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