“that basic bitch leaves finally. now i can take her man. someone told me stay away from things that aren’t yours. but was he yours if he wanted me so bad?”

one   steady  hand comes out to brush along a partially bare shoulder, cordelia alerting the other woman of her presence at the bar   ;  very rarely was she out on her own, but when her coven members didn’t want to be out, that changed her tune. when brown eyes met blue, cordelia took a moment to nod down to the stool beside her.      ❛   excuse me, but is this seat taken?  ❜

            There’s somewhat of an unspoken connection between those claimed by the devouring force of the Countess, one spanning a century of heartbreak and death. She’s cold and DEAD, but a figment of her imagination at the worst. This hotel had a way of driving them all crazy one by one with its art deco bullshit it ate them all up.

     the DENSE echo of heels did penetrate the sturdiness of her focus, despite it being      centered wholly elsewhere. when one sits in the same silence, at the same desk,      with the same surroundings for decades, any sound is liable to capture her scrutiny.      but it’s a finely-tuned practice that keeps hazels lingering on the musty pages in      front of her ––– until the owner of those ringing footsteps speaks. a finger is used      as a bookmark, worn covers coming together for the briefest of moments while she      converses with a blunt distaste for the subject. ❛ –––– in the penthouse, i presume.      i don’t make a habit to keep track of her whereabouts. ❜