"Oh."
A kiss upon the corner of the jaw.
A fist softly clenching her shirt collar.
A hand dragging her to private quarters.
"What's this for?"
"It doesn't matter."
"You don't even know my name."
"I said, it doesn't matter."
"It's Grell, if you cared."
"Angelina, if you cared."
Two could play this narcissistic chess game of lust.
"I don't. And neither do you."
"I truly don't. But I need you."
A meticulously plucked eyebrow raised skeptically in reply.
"I don't need you," said with indignity that grated between shark-like teeth.
An obnoxious retort and a blatant lie.
"You're lying, Grell."
"Shut up and kiss me."
"I thought you'd never ask."
A languid, nihilistic kiss.
Both of them were still covered in drying blood, but neither of them cared. Blood was like carmine to Grell, it made everything just a bit better. The only difference was too much of the intense red made you look like a clown but too much blood only made her look like the madwoman she was.
Layers of dark, filthy clothing coming off and layers of skin coming through.
What was the point of making brassieres and corsets and the like seductive if they were but a pain to remove during said seduction? Grell wondered. She gave an inward sigh, but she didn't really mind all that much. It had been too long since she last indulged herself, and the withdrawal was only getting worse with time.
Sighing and heavy breathing, lustful and loveless. They were pitiful even in pleasure, no? The thoughts Grell had during sex were always odd.
Great minds thought alike, or rather, great murderers think alike.
But the madame was able to take her mind off of – well, everything. She was good for a woman who was widowed years ago.
One night.
That was all Grell thought they'd agreed on. She indeed had satisfied her lust for a time. But the mess they would get into was more like one nightmare.
--------------------
The bleak London sun glimpsed through the clouds Grell was slowly becoming accustomed to. She still hated the grimness of London, even if she was part of it. The unstable dichotomy of poverty and nobility, the desperate lengths the poor would go to, the insatiable greed of the rich. The city was a bounty of opium and alcohol and sex, London was a nefarious world of its own, no cut-out good or bad, just people who did good things for bad reasons and bad things for good reasons.
Maybe that was why she was so fascinated by humans, especially Londoners.
She crossed her legs again, swinging them in boredom. She'd long finished the breakfast Angelina's servants – that was her name, yes? – prepared for her; poached eggs, fatty bacon, heavily buttered breads, deviled kidneys, and Ceylon tea with too much sugar, milk, and honey, too much of everything, the way Grell liked everything. Including her lovers.
Speaking of such, Angelina – memory could be poor for those who lived too long – was either still sleeping or had decided this was a one night stand-murder kind of thing. Most likely the latter, but Grell wasn't going to give up the privileges of upper-crust life. Fancy foods and tea and such nothings counted for something in her book.
Immortals could still be quite materialistic.
"Good morning, Baroness," the chef's voice greeted.
The madame emerged from her bedroom dressed for business. And murder. A dark red lace dress with a high collar and a slight variation of the same braided bun she wore when Grell first laid eyes on her. Strokes of carmine upon the lips and sheer layers of rouge on the apples of her cheeks complimented her strange amber eyes. Apparently her maid had quietly slipped into the room to help dress her lady.
She took a seat across from Grell at the banquet table and began her meal. The very definition of awkward. Both of them had plenty of things to say but too much pride to say them. They sat in silence as the baroness intentionally slurped her tea, breaking all codes of Victorian etiquette.
Approximately fifteen minutes later, the maid pulled her chair out for her and opened the surgeon's kit from the night before as she stood. The blades were stainless, free of blood. The maid closed the briefcase and handed it to the madame.
"Going to cut some more people up?" Grell asked, still staring at her empty tea cup.
"Yes, but this time I'm being paid to do so." Baroness Burnett smirked, the carmine on her lips glinting in the weak England sunlight.
A slight hesitation.
"Are you coming?"
The madame's face glowed with anticipation, daring on hope.
"London is calling, and I never disappoint."
YOU ARE READING
An Indifferent Attitude Towards Murder
Fanfiction"Certainly not Grell's idea of real fun - bloodshed was entertaining to twisted creatures like them, who saw through shattered glass, so only the worst parts of reality were visible - but it was unexpected, and that was what made Angelina so compell...
