.beats of a bitter heart

[phedre]

I seek you out,

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Deep dark secrets. That is what the volumes of moldy books meant for her - and she was a curious one, peering into this one and that. Tasting pieces of other people's lives, mulling over the flavor and deciding if she liked or not. It was always entertaining, which might clue one in on why exactly she worked at a book store and volunteered at libraries.

This, particular, library.. well, she was avoiding being found. The injuries she suffered from were largely psychological, and had to do with her mind. But, for example, the silver blade she'd been sliced with was poison. Still, it hadn't moved too far up her abdomen - somewhere near her left hip. No, if one lifted her shirt they would see the black tendrils reaching up, towards her heart. But, for now, she could control it. Dark tendrils reached towards her waist, the length of it straight but the ends curled. Pale flesh was made paler by the sickness that threatened to consume. Jeans and a bloody beige top with sneakers, and she was set.

Breath was taken deeply, soon it'd be labored, but right now she smelled the library and its apparent emptiness. A moment of peace before she was treated, she supposed. Plus, she wanted to pick out a book to read. No one was here, no one would know. Dry lips parted, air sucked in quickly as she tried to catch her breath. Unfortunately, the poison was working a little faster than she wanted. The shelf she had been peering at was covered in American Literature - how boring. At random, she reached for a volume, and it happened to be For Whom The Bell Tolls, by Hemingway. The irony was not lost on the woman who was reduced to clinging to the book shelf. Clearing her throat, she called out towards the hallways.

"Help. Someone, help me."

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..flay you alive.

[isabelle]

She was their, among the books letting her black gaze settle on one volume, then the next. A yawn escaped giving no indication of trying to hide it. Black hair was currently lose over tan slender arms as they crossed over her chest, a foot clad in a 6 inch black heel tapped impatiently on the floor below her. A sigh, a roll of the eyes, a thought of why on earth she was here crossed her mind, when she caught it. The tell tale sign of life among these dead dirty books. Head cocked, black hair falling in a heartbreakingly beautiful face, and she was on the move. Weaving in and out of the aisle of books, footsteps silent as they fell on the plush carpet. No one would hear her or sense her as she made her way to the young hurt girl.

Peeking into the aisle, Isabelle Lightwood saw the pale young woman, heard her feeble cries for help. Oh how she wished she could just walk in the other direction and ignore her, but alas a Nephilim helped those in need, whether it be another of her kind, downworlder, or a mundie. And though she was getting use to being 'friends' with them, instead of 'dating' them, she wasn't wholly accepting it as of yet. Another sigh, and yet another roll of the eyes, and Isabelle let herself be known as she stepped at the mouth of the aisle and stood their, hip cocked as a perfectly arched brow raised.

"Need something darlin?"