#hellslngs

-- how demanding!  What rarity and delight, the request.  Slinking shadows part from walls, filmed in the lambent light of a red moon through the window.  (What a LOVELY night it is!)  Shadows pull and stretch, and rather than moving around the chair to face his Master proper, he stretches long and limbed over the back of the chair, tongue snaking.  

“Famous last words of a fool.”  She hisses, “But you’re incredibly lucky, you don’t need to go to a hospital.”  gloved fingers shove the Master back into the nearest seat, and tries to ignore the curious and looming shadow of one Alucard over her shoulder.  Persephone peels her glove off, looks up at Integra with a curt notice:  “This is going to hurt.”  And digs her fingers into the bullet wound.  

-- A clean exit.  That’s good.  

The familiar slime and slip of scarlet on her fingers is a disturbing comfort.  She calls the heat to answer her, and it does.  The blood sings, and stitches veins back together.   When she pulls her fingers free, the hole is barely more than a scratch.  

“I can’t deny I do feel an ominous presence...I still can’t believe you could track a servant all the way from Ireland to here...” Archer seems to find this humorous, as his laughter echoes in the back of her mind.  I would know him anywhere, my lady.  She wants to ask what he means, but her holy man is incredibly vague at best.  She’s learning it’s just better not to ask.  

Getting into the mansion should really be more difficult than this:  Archer downs the two guards by the gate-- not dead, just unconscious, and they walk through the courtyard under the cover of night.  That shadowed presence observes them.  The servant must see them.  Or well, see her.  She doesn’t know if they can see Archer. 

Walk in light, My Lady.

Wait, Archer, Where are you going?