Deep Inside Sleeping Shadows [Adelaide/Lazarus]

[Lazarus Carter]

1:46PM, GREENWICH MEAN TIME
FEBRUARY 2ND, 2012
HEATHROW AIRPORT, TERMINAL 4
LONDON

He was home.

And the airport coffee still tasted like ass. Picked beans from fine Peruvian farms where workers toiled day-in day-out beneath the sun, roasted in a thousand smoky flames, shipped across to the plant where each bag was meticulously checked for defective samples, then crushed and ground into a fine espresso powder at the effort of dozens of clamps which generated hundreds of PSIs of pressure - none of that shit mattered. It still tasted like ass.

He'd decided to take a break from the queue and sit down in the airport cafe nearby, simply observing it; but as more and more people flocked to it by the minute, as if the sign said "Free Blowjobs" instead of "Hire Car", Lazarus simply felt his heart sink and himself become preemptively more bored already. Sure; some people were finding themselves overly frustrated with the waiting, and instead bombed out themselves, storming off in an agitated manner.

So instead he sat and sipped at his coffee, and scrolled through his recently re-acquired phone, SIM changed to the one he used whilst taking a +44 area code. The child of America and Britain was wittingly aware of not only both cultures but numerous technicalities; time differences, country call codes, even slang and lingo. At a moment's notice he could veil himself as one of the English: another lager-slugging South London boy who some affectionately just referred to as "The Yank".

All of his university friends had been alerted to his returned presence in the country, and rebuttals had come back through in the vein of "where the hell have you been?" more or less most of the time. Old flames, drinking buddies, even one from university officials; and a particularly attractive lecturer he'd managed to wrangle alone outside of class time, though of course that had never gone anywhere. He looked fondly back on the repute and community he'd garnered himself in England like it was some past life, or the mechanisms and workings of an alter ego, "another Lazarus" if you would. Dark Lazarus. Lazarus the Londoner. His evil twin Surazal.

It was weird, what this whole thing did to you. It was one hell of a rollercoaster; but it was such an experience that for a while everything else in his life had become background noise. And now, the slow, churning return to actual reality on solid Earth ground loomed overhead, daunting as it had ever been, and for once, for what felt like years but yet had only been weeks, the redhead American was one thing and one thing alone: afraid. For what if he just couldn't return?

The Hunter cut his sentimentality short and instead rose to his feet, coffee in hand, huffing under his breath, deciding that he'd either rejoin the queue or get some fresh air. At this point in time, he wasn't sure which he needed most. But either way, he wasn't exactly looking where he was going - and an all-too-familiar circumstance arose once more as he inadvertently shoulder-barged a well-dressed, affluent-looking young blonde woman, his coffee jerking up in the air and spattering all down his Superdry bomber, all over the ridge of the trilby he was wearing, and even against the lenses of the Wayfarers pinned against his jacket - and of course over the lady's shoes.

"Again, really?" He muttered under his breath, setting the remainder of the coffee down on a nearby pedestal and looking to the woman guiltily. "I'm very sorry, miss." He tried his best to put on the "exhausted tourist" voice, for once putting emphasis on the Montana drawl in his voice. With a frantic movement he jerked to a nearby table and grasped a handful of serviettes, lowering himself to start wiping the coffee from her footwear; nice as they were, it was only a little splash. "This isn't the first time this has happened, I'm a klutz normally, and, well, eight hours from Washington on no sleep doesn't help." And why had he suddenly begun talking out of his ass like there was no tomorrow?

[Adelaide Kingsford]

Airports weren't her shebang. They were about as noisy as Shanghai in the midst of their New Year's celebrations, sans the technicolor fireworks and the obnoxious, glitzy costumes and decorations. Regardless of where she turned her gaze, sounds and noises entered her ear canals, overloading her brain with a slew of auditory information. Crowds of people gossiping to one another, discussing day-to-day events or the results of their recent luxury vacation. An infant in the distance, squealing and crying angrily to alert others that it demanded attention. The blips and pings of the electronic interfaces and flight monitors scattered throughout the terminal. The occasional announcement over the airport intercoms. No matter where she turned to look, or what she heard, the result would always be the same.

Adelaide Kingsford despised airports.

Unfortunately, due to a lapse of logic on her part, she had unwittingly agreed to meet her client at the terminal's cafe in order to discuss matters involving their future court date, where she would represent him before the judge. Why she hadn't offered to have him escorted to her mansion estate was beyond her. Alas, the blonde-haired woman made her bed, so she had to sleep in it now. Naturally, the lady Kingsford was dressed to impress, wearing an expensive, all-black suit and tie, with her choice of shoes being the only apparel that didn't match the rest of her ensemble in color scheme, being made of rich, dark brown leathers. In one hand was a briefcase containing her work-related belongings and her laptop computer, and a small, metal thermos in the other, filled with a generous amount of home-brewed Earl Grey tea. Because airport beverages were total rubbish.

Letting out a miserable sigh, she briefly adjusted her silk necktie by the knot with a finger and thumb, temporarily switching her beverage container over to the other hand to do so, as she scanned for the airport directory, quickly discovering its presence merely feet away from her present location. She briskly paced her way over to discern the facility layout, trailing her green eyes up and down the board until she found the word "CAFE" marked conveniently over the space that depicted its bordered dimensions, and noticed that she was relatively close to it, thanks to the "You Are Here" marker, placed exactly where she was.

With a posh swagger in her every step, Adelaide maneuvered her way through and around the crush of people, keeping perfect rhythm with every stride she took while unconsciously focusing on the claps and clicks her shoes created as they touched against the floor. The noise helped keep her attention occupied on something other than the crowds around her, prevented her from experiencing a panic attack. Kept her sane, even. If there ever was a valid reason for why she disliked airports as much as she did, the crowds of people that swarmed the halls and galleries were that reason.

The suit-wearing lawyer, seemingly distracted by her fixation on the ambient noise her own footwear made, had successfully closed the distance between herself and the airport cafe within a matter of minutes. Of course, such distractions came at a cost—namely speaking, a reduction in one's ability to see out of their peripheral vision. Adelaide would quickly find herself subject to this detriment as she felt her smaller frame barge its way into an opposing force, causing her to buckle briefly and turn in the direction of the impact to avoid toppling over. As she was pulled from her reverie, the sound of liquid splattering against multiple surfaces reached her ears while the figure she bumped into mumbled something to himself.

Looking down to see what had transpired, Adelaide's eyes momentarily shot wide open as the sight of spilled coffee entered her line of sight, a small, light brown puddle collected near her shoes as a splotch of the liquid settled into the Swiss leather. The fellow she had bumped into, a red-headed young man wearing a fedora and a bomber jacket now soaked with his caffeinated drink, turned to apologize to her before the blonde woman had a chance to speak up, "I'm very sorry, miss."

"N-no, that's perfectly alright," she stuttered hesitantly, trying to move in tandem with the coffee-stained person as he grabbed a handful of cocktail towelettes to wipe up the dark splotch on her shoes. But he appeared far too engrossed with his clumsiness, rambling with a thick accent in his voice, indicating to the lawyer that he was likely a foreigner that hailed from another English-speaking country, a hypothesis the man verified shortly afterward, "This isn't the first time this has happened, I'm a klutz normally, and, well, eight hours from Washington on no sleep doesn't help."

Baffled by his frantic behavior and embarrassed that someone might be watching, the young woman forcibly pulled her feet away from the tourist in the fedora and, putting down her thermos and briefcase, propped herself onto a seat so that she may attend to her damaged shoes on her own accord. "It's entirely fine, sir. I can get them repaired later." Adelaide reassured the man, the pitch of her voice and every syllable it spoke carrying with it a thickly caked on British accent, one of elegance and class, indicative of a wealthy and cultured background. The stain was permanently set in, but it never really bothered her. It was an accident, after all, and shoes like these were relatively cheap for a person of her wealth.

[Lazarus Carter]

"N-no, that's perfectly alright," Lazarus shook his head strongly, trying his absolute best not to have any attention turned towards he and the unfortunate next victim of his serial coffee-spilling. Instead, he just busied himself with dabbing gingerly at the stains. The dress shoes looked somewhat expensive. And the woman very much held an air of affluence around her; thus, her response had... very much surprised him.

"It isn't, though, I'm a real clumsy bastard sometimes." Well, the cat was already out of the bag on the cursing front, but hey. Just as he finished dabbing, she jerked his feet away, and he scratched the back of his head awkwardly and let loose a sigh. "Are you sure you don't want some money to get them sorted out, or something?" He wasn't really an expert on the cleaning processes of women's shoes, but they had looked expensive.

Come to think of it, she herself was... very young to be wearing such an extravagant outfit. The almost-regal English accent hanging over his voice was, though one the stereotype of the British were nearly always given, seldom encountered in Southbank, or indeed in his travels through London. The business and financial districts were of course populated with your occasional narcissistic and pretentious bankers who liked to put their voices on for their enigmatic clients, but to the blonde woman, it sounded... genuine. She'd grown up with it. She'd come from money, was his assumption, and from a wealth of resource, and thus had learnt how to act properly, by the British fifties definition of things.

"It's entirely fine, sir. I can get them repaired later." Irrespective of her defiance, he at least found himself feeling guilty. What was it with his track record of spilling coffee in the general proximity of attractive young women? Though she was a few years older than Jinhong by his assumption, and clearly busier; there was something of a trend here. Though, the trend was correct - Lazarus had always found himself with a little bit of an infatuation for the real extravagant British girls. Just something desirable about them. And the fact that he himself was a foreigner tended to garner him a few points in the book at the very least. Though it would have been far more successful if it was a British man with American girls. Damn those lucky bastards.

The woman stood about five feet tall, which made her almost a head and a half shorter than Lazarus. She was petite; a featherweight to say the very least. But though her structure was small, it complimented well the extravagant aura that seemed to exude or almost radiate from her, letting people know that she wasn't to be trifled with irrespective of her height or side. Not only that; it was an addition to the look of pretty composure she managed to carry about her - attractive though reserved. Soft blonde hair and a pair of eyes as vibrant as a thousand spanning pastures. She was not plain; there was a beauty there, but it was one the redhead almost felt she tried to restrain when she was working - as he could only assume she was now. Perhaps it was to keep her on even footing with others when it came to her occupation? Eliminate the turning of heads that she could oh-so-easily evoke.

But alas this was all but conjecture. Irrespective, he was a free man, and he still felt somewhat responsible for the stain on her shoes. Though she dabbed at it she didn't seem in a massive hurry to reach anywhere, and the queue for the hire cars remained consistently longer than he found himself able to deal with. Not now that he at least had a spot of potential company. "At least let me buy you a cup of coffee or something, Miss...?" And with that, he trailed off, waiting for a name: so he'd then exchange his in return.

[Adelaide Kingsford]

In spite of her best efforts to blend the dark coffee stain into the leather and make it look as natural as possible, Adelaide was thoroughly convinced it would be for naught. Her monks, which had been directly imported all the way from Switzerland as a gift to her, were beyond salvation—and it was all thanks to a rambling, self-conscious, red-headed American tourist with a set of renegade butterfingers. However, it wasn't her place to accuse the fellow of carelessly traipsing about the airport when she herself exercised improper navigational protocols. Besides, she could always just get another pair of shoes after her meeting was over; it was one of the benefits of having access to a great fortune.

With a detached shrug, the lawyer placed her feet back on the ground, gracefully sweeping her legs underneath the table next to her so that she assumed a proper seated position, representative of her authoritarian upbringing once again. With surgical precision, Adelaide folded the used, damp serviettes into neat little triangles and tucked them into a pocket located on the inside of her custom-fitted, coal black blazer, making a mental note to dispose of them after her meeting came to a close. She pulled her briefcase close to her and undid the clasps that kept it shut, preparing her space as if the encounter with the young man had never happened at all.

However, it seemed as though he wasn't willing to let go of his overwhelming, if not exaggerated guilt, just yet. At least, not without making reparations to the woman whose overpriced, Swiss leather shoes he had, quite inadvertently, destroyed. "At least let me buy you a cup of coffee or something, Miss...?" The question went unanswered for a brief moment, seeing as Adelaide was occupied with retrieving and setting up her computer, A MacBook Air, to be precise; an eleven-inch piece she took care of with excruciating, almost mechanical consistency. There wasn't a single blemish or smudge mark anywhere on its aluminum body, further indicative of her structured and meticulous lifestyle.

"Kingsford." Adelaide finally spoke as soon as the iconic Apple start-up chime loudly rang from the speakers, the once-black screen flashing a light aqua blue as the company's eponymous logo popped into existence, followed by the loading wheel. As she waited for her computer to warm up, she glanced over to the man in the fedora with her large, emerald eyes. "And there's no need to get me anything," she continued, her very accent permeated with the influence of her wealthy parentage, as she gestured to her blue thermos. "I brought my own drink." She flashed a quick smile at the gentleman, obliged to show him her complete lack of irritation with the earlier incident, seeing as how he had trouble coming to grips with what he had done. "But I appreciate your generosity, irrespective. Enjoy your time in London."

With another smile, but without making another sound from her lips, the sharp-dressed lady immediately turned back to her computer, seeing that it had brought her to the desktop at long last. Thus, she began typing away at her keyboard and dragging fingers along the track pad in place of a mouse, pulling up an appropriate Internet browser and opening a couple of tabs so that she might multitask as she patiently waited for her client to show up. The red-headed fellow, try if he felt inclined to, would find it next to impossible to discern any kind of hostility resonating from her strange display of social detachment.

It was almost as if she had never spoken to him at all.

[Lazarus Carter]

The woman set down her Thermos and seemingly turned her attention from the ruined shoes; Lazarus almost felt a pang of guilt, but he was too tired for any other negative emotion other than embarrassment to enter the cocktail at this point in time. With a busy, working vigour, she unsheathed a Mac of sorts - much to the Windows enthusiast's distaste, openly grimacing - and made short, blunt rebuttals.

"Kingsford." Kingsford... ignoring the manner in which she'd replied for a moment, Lazarus looked eagerly off into the sky with bold red eyes; forgetting his spilling the coffee on her shoes, forgetting Yuuko, forgetting the hire car - and instead dove headfirst into that daydream world he so nonchalantly populated. Now... where, just where did he recognise that surname from? "And there's no need to get me anything," Earth to Lazarus. The teenager snapped back to reality and smiled broadly. Well, after a sixty pound cab fare for his younger, non-present comrade, he shrugged to himself. Her loss, his heavier pockets.

Instead she gestured to the blue Thermos. "I brought my own drink." Ahh... of course, she was one of those. Preferred her own personal style, or blend, whatever. Presumably tea. Though from her affluent look and the utterly disgusting so-called 'designer' laptop, it could well have been coffee for a job demanding a more active and awakened mind. "But I appreciate your generosity, irrespective. Enjoy your time in London."

For a moment, Lazarus sat, blank-faced, as she turned to the computer. And thus, their brief snapshot of conversation was over. He... what? The Hunter knew all too well that maybe this hadn't be the greatest way to get into conversation with someone, especially individuals who had such a tendency to be upon their high horse as she did - but really, that was just not polite. Either way, he tilted his head and figured that being the bigger person was the best option here, making a stern remark in kind. "I live here, was just visiting family, but, thanks. You too."

With that, he turned back to the coffee of his own - half-remaining, and began idly scrubbing at the stains down his own Superdry bomber. To be fair; it was black, and a quick trip into you-know-where would probably prove to be an operational and swift dry-cleaning service, what with the uncanny wardrobe physics over there. No matter the cuts and nicks he endured, he always seemed to come back with his clothing - if not his body - in perfect shape. But, really, this had been a chance encounter triggered by his own clumsiness; and the fact that she was so busy that she couldn't even waste a few minutes on idle small talk, Lazarus found somewhat irritating.

They were in the Blackberry era; the Apple decade; the Twitter universe, the Facebook system. Everything now was about communication. Even now he looked around; a roomful of people glued to the screens of PDAs and netbooks. No-one knew how to just sit down and share a drink, have a chat, without being judged or having to check in on their email. His father had moaned about this all the time Laz had been growing up; and though he felt like a grouchy old man forty years too early, the reality of it was astonishing. And her: whilst there was politesse and courtesy in her actions, the fact that she didn't reciprocate his undue friendliness, irrespective of whether she was a surgeon, an executive, a lawyer-

LAWYER. Of course. Kingsford and Co. The firm - how could he have forgotten? Almost two years ago now, a six week vacation in England looking around at universities - for Law, then, instead of Music Tech - had taken him through and around. Believe it or not, the inner mechanisms of the court had once truly enthralled, in all their courtroom splendour, the unshackled and creative soul that was Lazarus. And even from now and then he flipped through the occasional business and law magazine to get a check up on it - and the prestige of her firm aside, he realised now that it wasn't only the name she recognised, but the face too.

"Kingsford." Laz slipped a sly smile, moving over to her and inching out the chair opposite on her table. It was probably out of line; but now this was just a combination of revelation and grit-toothed determination to show whoever - perhaps himself - that true communication wasn't yet dead. Phones and the internet were useful; indeed central in many a business, but the jaded teen believed they belonged as a supplement - not a substitute. "I thought I recognised the name," The redhead spoke in that coy accent, setting down his own drink, after taking a sip. "How's the firm going?"

Cocking his head, he tried his absolute best to remember the intimate details of the brief feature he'd read on her. "...Adelaide, right?" Laz shrugged. Whether it was right or not didn't matter. His memories could be, at best, hazy, but he had a knack for remembering the useless shit that only came in semi-useful once in a blue moon. For example, now. Throwing his hands up with a broad grin, he tried his best to prove he wasn't a stalker. "I read a few law periodicals every now and then." Hey, reading was good for the mind, body, and soul. "It's been a while, but... hey, what was the title, again? 'Child Prodigy Assumes Chairperson Role'?"

All he wanted was a decent conversation whilst the line thinned out. Was that such a crime? Irrespective; there was the hook: now for the line and sinker to come in time.

[Adelaide Kingsford]

Keystrokes here, tapping against the track pad there, then there was the opening and closing of an assortment tabs and windows as Adelaide went about her business on the Internet while she waited stoically for her client to show up. The young, red-headed fellow that had instigated the earlier coffee incident—albeit inadvertently—seemed to have taken off after their brief exchange of dialogue, but not before correcting the female lawyer's assumption, stereotypical as it may have been, that he was a tourist by claiming that he actually lived in London. Were she not so engrossed with her work, there was a solid possibility that she may have made a comment on his deceptive American accent. But the chance came and went, and she missed it. Not like exploiting that window was a priority for her, anyway.

A few moments passed while she continued to go about her business before she picked up on his voice again—this time, he called her out by last name. "Kingsford." Instinctively, she turned to face the fellow, who hadn't actually left the scene from what she could determine, taking mental note of the cheesy grin attached to his lips. "I thought I recognised the name," After watching him take a swig of his half-empty cup as if he were trying to be funny with her, Adelaide did her hardest to try and ease her way out of his forced encounter by glancing over at her screen a couple of times, hoping to send a signal that she wasn't to be bothered, but her efforts were in vain. "How's the firm going?"

Sighing as if she were defeated, though more out of scant displeasure, she gently closed her laptop and swiveled to face the man who simply wouldn't go away. "Successful," Adelaide answered curtly, eyebrows furrowed with a mixture of vexation and confusion, all of which stemmed from his supposed compulsion, his drive, to want to know about a total stranger to his life. "We have yet to lose a single case, if you were curious to know." She reached over and grabbed her azure thermos, unscrewing the cap in her efforts to pour herself a serving of Earl Grey. She was probably going to need it sooner or later.

A break in dialogue passed before the man with the stained bomber jacket, who took a moment to ponder to himself for whatever reason, killed the silence with a question. "...Adelaide, right?" Typical schmucks would have likely freaked out or went straight for their keychain mace as soon as their name was guessed on the first try, but she refused to grant this person the satisfaction of watching her eyes pop open like a pair of grapefruits exposed to a sledgehammer; Adelaide was fully aware of the reputation her name carried in London. After all, her parents were skilled and ferocious in the courtroom—it was a legacy she was forced to inherit and uphold. "I read a few law periodicals every now and then." So he liked to take a gander at the paper once in a while. Was he expecting a medal or something? "It's been a while, but... hey, what was the title, again? 'Child Prodigy Assumes Chairperson Role'?"

Child Prodigy? Sure, she was particularly young to hold such a lofty position as chairperson, but who was the bloke responsible for branding her as a child prodigy? Disgruntled by the misnomer, Adelaide shook her head and rubbed at her temples. "That was about a year ago. I was twenty-three..." she muttered loud enough for the other guy to hear, taking a dainty sip of tea from her plastic cup. Now she needed some Earl Grey. Placing the liquid-filled container down against the table, the lawyer continued. "Can I help you with something? I'm expecting my client; he should be here very soon."

There was nothing personal about her lack of social courtesy, especially since she was trying to stave off someone she didn't know. But Adelaide prioritized work over leisure every chance she had. Bills don't pay themselves, you know.

[Lazarus Carter]

"Successful," The response was curt; short and sweet. She was being blunt. He was being intrusive. Neither of them were doing it intentionally, but it still happened. "We have yet to lose a single case, if you were curious to know." Lazarus nodded in concurrence. That was not bad. Not bad at all. For... what, twenty-five? Twenty-six? A flawless record on her own firm? That was impressive. A real accolade to have on one's side. He imagined Kingsford & Co had no problems getting clients.

Smiling broadly, the redhead inclined his head once more. "Well, here's to your luck continuing," Exhaustively, he rose the coffee into the air for a little mock toast, before tipping the cup back into his mouth with a gentle breath of relief. Oh, coffee... The teenager mused, his mind beginning to wander. How I love you so. If only we could be together, and it was not taboo to form a union with inanimate objects... Laz blinked, and took a quick double-take, rising from his trance just to make sure no-one had heard that and it was firmly echoing only in the echelons of his mind.

It was a few moments before he regained his composure and realised Adelaide, with an undercurrent of ever-so-slight frustration, was speaking once more. "That was about a year ago. I was twenty-three..." ...huh. Seemed like she had a bone to pick about being underestimated it. The terminology of "child" had never really stood out to Laz; for as far as he knew, he was still really just a big kid. Child in the body of a nineteen-year-old. And functioning just about as maturely as the former, to boot.

Lazarus shrugged. "I dunno, for chairing a law firm which has had under your control a flawless run at, what..." A year ago, twenty-three... "...twenty-four?" He arched an eyebrow, waiting for some essence of confirmation, but realised all-too-quickly that he probably wasn't going to get it. The solicitor was far too mesmerised between her Earl Grey and the shitty Mac. "You might not think so, but that's a pretty amazing streak for someone who's only been out of law school a couple of years, and is, technically, still just getting out there in the world." There were still ancient lawyers trouncing about in the real world after working for thirty, forty, even fifty years. Comparatively, to them she was a child.

And then came crunch time. "Can I help you with something? I'm expecting my client; he should be here very soon." It wasn't blunt, or rude; it was still trying to shove him off and get straight to the point, but it was clear there was an impersonal element, as if she just wasn't very well-versed in the mannerisms of the social. Which was fair enough. Most lawyers had a real backbone and rigidity to them; for meeting a random Yank at the airport, that was probably a fair and justified response in itself. But the queue was only dwindling to gather another cyclical amount of people moments later, the redhead saw, peeking past the blonde's shoulder, so he shrugged.

"I don't know, can you?" Lazarus replied playfully, before pointing straight over her shoulder. "I'm sat here waiting for that monstrosity to cut down a little before I go and grab the details for my hire car." Promptly, he continued. Bluntness only to be met with further brevity. "And I'm bored." He shrugged. "Thus, you're the person I've picked to engage myself with, as you appear both mildly recognisable and interesting." Another pause. "Take that as a compliment." God, he really was feeling odd today, wasn't he?

"So, it's not up to me as to whether or not you can help me with something, Miss Kingsford, because you're already providing some sense of entertainment by listening to my bullshit spiels and justifying my intrusive crap," Lazarus only continued to spurt out. "But if there's something that you think you could help me with, for instance, my biggest current quandary," Another gesture at the line. "The size of that queue," The redhead lowered his finger. "Or, really, anything, that'd be great."

Why was it that whenever he was on the spot for a great speech, that he came up with brief shit, and when he was at his absolute lowest, exhausted and vegetating, half-conscious in an airport café, he could come out with a load of truly perplexing... shit? The way things worked truly vexed Lazarus Carter indeed - but he imagined that the solicitor was somewhat more confused than he was. So the teenager blinked, and waited for some semblance of a reply.

[Adelaide Kingsford]

"I don't know, can you?" Adelaide blinked in vague shock at the manner in which the redhead uncouthly rebuffed her question, despite the socially awkward lawyer's attempts to politely but firmly send him on his way. Turning in the direction he had pointed toward, her eyes landed on a crowd of people lined up in single file, waiting to access an automobile rental booth. This time, she slowly blinked in her poker-faced astonishment, actually taken aback by the queue's sheer length; that was ridiculous, even by airport standards.

"I'm sat here waiting for that monstrosity to cut down a little before I go and grab the details for my hire car." Well, that seemed fairly reasonable. Thinking on that logic, Adelaide turned around to face the young man and determine his ulterior motives, if he actually possessed any, for taking such a great deal of interest in her. "And I'm bored." Wait a tick, did he have a particular motive again? "Thus, you're the person I've picked to engage myself with, as you appear both mildly recognisable and interesting." Okay, now he was just spouting utter poppycock at this point, though he did mention he had went eight hours without sleep a little earlier. Lack of sleep affected the psyche in a slew of ways.

Speaking gibberish was one of them, apparently. But from what she was able to decipher from his jumbled nonsense, he was attempting to justify his blatant meddling by doing... something. And just like that, the redhead had completely lost her. "You're not making any sense at all." She finally commented after his verbal tirade had concluded itself, eloquent with the tone and enunciation of her words, but entirely blunt and candid in their intended meaning. His alleged lack of sleep resurfaced within her thoughts again, pressuring her to do a little bit of interrogation of her own. "What do you do for a living?"

Another important piece of information that rested on the solicitor's mind was the lack of a name, an identity to call this man, who felt so inclined to butt into other peoples' business as if he were personally involved in their daily lives. Anyone with half a brain could have spotted the lady Kingsford from miles away; her family's reputation, in combination with the media's effervescent compulsion to spread her name and face around the news, made certain that she could be spotted among the crowd if one put their head to it. However, the real question was:

Who the hell was this guy?

[Lazarus Carter]

Adelaide followed his finger with her glance, and did blink in what appeared to be some sense of being taken aback when it came to the mammoth queue that persisted for the hire car section. Good, at least she felt some sense of sympathy there."You're not making any sense at all." Laz shrugged. That wasn't strange. After going almost a whole day without any sleep, he felt like one of the walking dead, and caffeine was the only thing keeping him conscious; forget about pleasant and sensible.

"I often don't," The redhead murmured in gentle rebuttal, idly playing with his cup of coffee. "Probably comes hand in hand with the sleep deprivation." The redhead shrugged. Normally his words were intelligible enough, but at the moment, there was an oddly present yet disjointed flow to them, a sort of quirky cadence that stood out somewhat. As if he were a little off-centre, a little messed up in someway, unsettled, reshuffled. Whatever the words were for it.

"What do you do for a living?" Well, now she was just showing him up. What was she, two, three years out of law school and now one of the most prestigious solicitors in all of London? And to show for a year and a half of Music Tech at Southbank he had patchwork memories of awful hangovers and a three-month absence he couldn't justify - which, looking at her, knew that if he explained his current, more supernatural predicament, he'd end up in the loony bin sooner rather than later.

Either way, the redhead answered as swiftly as possible. "I'm a student," He explained, watching the hire car queue like a hawk. "London Southbank. Foreign exchange, music tech, first year." Though he'd already missed most of it; and realising just as she did, whilst he had a name for her - and a prolific one of that - she had no identity or label for him. "Lazarus." He explained, jabbing his hand across the table. "Lazarus Carter. Call me Laz. Everyone does." Except Yuuko. But that was Yuuko.

With that, he had been noticing - finally - some movement of the queue, a rapid shuffling forwards. What, had the place only just fucking opened? What was this shit? Clambering to his feet, almost unable to believe what was unfolding before him, he waited only briefly for her handshake, before jerking a thumb towards the line. "Sorry to bolt so abruptly, but..." Laz cocked his head. "I'd better jump on this horse whilst the whole thing's still moving, y'know?"

Lazarus zipped up his bomber and nodded politely to the blonde; even if he'd been a bit odd and pushy, it was still good to have some semblance of courtesy. Making all his preparations, he smiled one last time. "Nice to meet you, Miss Kingsford. Some other time, maybe, when you're not quite so busy." With that, he broke into a deft stride; past the coffee table, past the Macbook, past the boundaries of the coffee shop, and past the open demonology tab he caught a wayward glimpse of on her laptop screen as he moved along-

Hold the fucking phone.

It was only after a few more strides that he processed all this information and his pupils shrunk to tiny dots, his eyes narrowing, and his lids widening and sinking a little to allow him to take on that truly startled look. Halting in the middle of the terminal as others busied around him, the lone Montanan pivoted on his heel with a sense of urgency and stared over at Adelaide, now with her back to him, as he forgot about the entire debacle with the hire car line. She was... looking at... but... could she be? Was she?

It was only a few moments before he lurched forwards somewhat silently, resting his arms on the fence which cordoned off the area for this specific café; luckily he stood there without the blonde noticing him for a moment, standing barely feet behind her - and then the redhead's slender, lithe arm pressed forwards, through the air, over her shoulder as she diligently tapped away, and hovered barely inches from the screen itself over the particular tab in question: the make-or-break ideal. "Now I never really pinned you for being one of those, Miss Kingsford," Laz elaborated from behind her with a sly grin.

It was only moments before the redhead sidled back around and, presumably much to her chagrin, back over to the table, slumping into his chair with that consistent smirk on his face. "And by 'one of those', I mean..." He took a quick look around. Not to be paranoid, but only because - well, Templars, he'd heard, had a certain habit of pursuing suspects, and after their run-in with the good, and slightly nuts Reverend, there was a chance that his men would be skulking after them somewhat. "One of us." The current under his emphasis would hopefully travel through effectively - Adelaide and Lazarus shared a similarity in their genealogy. Within their genetic heritage lied the dominant DNA coding for a base ability that defined them: made them what they were. Demon Hunters.

[Adelaide Kingsford]

While her attention remained glued to the red-haired young man, Adelaide fumbled her hand across the table in order to open her Mac up again, doing so without so much as a cursory glance in its direction. "I'm a student," Combined with the sleep deprivation he spoke of, it gave the young lawyer only one conclusion she could reach. "London Southbank. Foreign exchange, music tech, first year." Just as she thought. It also explained his thick accent as well. With the amount of information she had at her disposal, it gave the lawyer ample reason to believe that he was one of those types who regularly shirked his academic duties in favor of excessive partying. It was no wonder he was so exhausted.

Irresponsibility aside, at least he had the courtesy to try and introduce himself, a stark contrast to Adelaide, who could unwittingly ignore such trivialities by means of her illustrious reputation. "Lazarus." He thrusted a hand forward, hoping to lock the encounter in with a cordial shake. "Lazarus Carter. Call me Laz. Everyone does." Laz? A knot formed within the blonde woman's throat as she sounded out his nickname within her mind. Just the mere thought of repeating it felt excruciatingly awkward to her; not only would it be a breach of professional conduct, seeing as she was used to announcing a client's proper name, but it was merely the way her parents had taught her to speak. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance." She deliberately avoided repeating his name to avoid explaining her discomfort with speaking in a way that was socially casual. Instead, Adelaide extended her own hand and clasped Lazarus', marking their encounter with a single, firm shake, one that a man would have used.

Out of nowhere, the red-headed university student had bolted from his seat almost frantically, gathering his belongings as if he were a tornado scooping up debris off the ground while apologizing to the affluent Londoner for cutting their conversation so short, justified in that the massive queue behind her had cleared up a little. "Nice to meet you, Miss Kingsford. Some other time, maybe, when you're not quite so busy." Which probably wasn't going to happen, considering she had a firm to manage and run. Oh well. With behaviour like that, he was bound to get into some kind of trouble. "Phone if you ever need a representative in court." She spoke up, reminded of that possibility. And just like that, he stormed off without another word.

Adelaide blinked, utterly perplexed by what had just transpired. What a strange person. She thought to herself as she adjusted her posture so that she could better type in front of her computer. Taking a sip of her Earl Grey, she shot a glance at the upper right-hand corner of her screen, noting that several minutes had passed since her quirky conversation with Lazarus. Her client still had yet to show up? She scoffed, clearly annoyed by his lack of punctuality. People these days, they don't appreciate the value of timeliness. On a more positive note, it gave her plenty of opportunity to browse the Internet at her leisure, which she took advantage of as soon as her fingers touched the keyboard, pounding at them with lightning speed and surgical precision.

Scrolling a thumb over to the last of her open tabs, a website dedicated to the occult and the paranormal popped up on the Mac's screen. More specifically, it was a demonology encyclopedia; a large and extensive one at that. Links to various articles and reports were scattered around the page, but Adelaide had already chosen a topic to read. Next to the article's title was an image of an oil painting that depicted four people, two men and two women, all of whom were dressed in medieval garments. The men and the women, however, appeared physically identical to one another, a visual clue as to what topic the picture was intended to codify. The Doppelgänger, a creature said to possess the deceptive ability to take on the appearance of any person, viewed as a symbol of ill fortune and impending death.

Ill fortune, impending death, the ability to take on a person's appearance... Adelaide's eyes glazed over with sadness as her mind flooded with the terrible memories of the horrible tragedy that happened a little over a year ago. Was this hideous thing, this Doppelgänger, what she had encountered that night? It certainly seemed feasible, given the mysterious circumstances surrounding her late mother, Lucia. But that would suggest that the shapeshifting creature had either killed her at some point and took on her form and face, or that Lucia was one the entire time.

And then there was her father, who went out of his way to send that letter to his adopted daughter while she was still in law school, demanding that she stay there. Surely he must have picked up on it; otherwise, he wouldn't have bothered to try and force Adelaide to stay at York. Another fragment of memory entered her thoughts. That's right. Winston said that he was—rather, had been—a Demon Hunter. As the name implied, he slayed the creatures that go bump in the night at some point during his early life. Demon Hunters. And in all her twenty-four years of living in the lap of luxury, cloistered from the rest of London and raised in the ways of eloquence and professionalism, it turned out that she, too, was one of them.

Adelaide's eyelids sunk lower as she brooded over what plagued her, listless and entirely unaware that a hand had reached over her shoulder and pointed to her computer screen. "Now I never really pinned you for being one of those, Miss Kingsford," The voice of the red-headed university student from earlier, Lazarus Carter, succeeded in drawing a shrill squeal from the solicitor as she jerked in her chair, having just become alerted of his return from the queue behind her. Her startled scream drew a few agitated glares from some of the people around her, however she was far too busy trying to calm her fluctuating heart rate to allow embarrassment to take hold over her thoughts.

Instead, she took it upon herself to clearly express her outrage, albeit in a passive-aggressive sort of way, by glowering at the young man that took a seat across from her once more, observing the grin on his face with angry eyes, as if he had recently discovered some kind of hideous, dark secret of hers. Though livid with Lazarus for not warning her that he was coming back to speak with her again, the contempt in her emerald irises vanished almost instantly with a few deep, calming breaths. "And by 'one of those', I mean..." He emphasized again before glancing around dubiously, almost as if he were concerned with the possibility that someone might be listening in on what he was going to say next. Naturally, his suspicious behaviour raised some mental red flags, but what did he mean by implying that she was "one of those"? He wasn't trying to suggest that... he... knew? Was he?

"One of us." And the hammer was dropped. Red warning lights flashed within the depths of Adelaide's psyche as she desperately tried to determine what might have tipped Lazarus off. She gave her computer screen a neurotic glimpse before her pupils contracted into tiny dots; the article on the Doppelgänger was still up, and viewable by everyone around her. But to make a scene out of his sudden discovery would not only verify that he actually did know about her hideous, dark secret, but it would only attract unwanted attention to the both of them—and neither of the two looked forward to any of that.

With phenomenal resistance, Adelaide kept up her stony expression as she coolly finished the rest of her tea before screwing the cap onto her thermos. "I've not a clue as to what you might possibly be referring to. However, your repeated snooping has worn my patience thin." She had to physically resist wincing at the sound of her own voice, which now carried that stuck up timbre with it as she deflected the red-headed student's implications with a mild venom to her tone. Doing this only served to make her feel more guilty than she wanted to, but he was bringing up a sensitive topic.

They had to discuss this elsewhere.

Without bothering to close her browser properly, the lawyer slammed her pointer finger on the Mac's power button until it entered a forced shutdown, turning the device off and rendering the screen pitch black. Pulling a pen and paper from her briefcase, she began scribbling something against it, presumably a note of some kind but one she wouldn't be willing to share with the inquisitive young man. "I suggest you keep your intrusive nose out of others' affairs before you land yourself in considerable trouble one day, Lazarus." Rapidly folding the letter into tiny segments, Adelaide stood up with a powerful motion and slammed her computer shut, stuffing it into the briefcase and snagging her thermos along with it before storming off with a faked look of visible irritation on her features.

She'd have to call back her client and reschedule their venue of business, but it was a sacrifice that the lawyer was forced to make. And were the invasive Lazarus Carter to have paid attention, he would have likely spotted the folded paper resting against the spot that Adelaide previously occupied. Scrawled on one of its faces in professional and exceptionally ornate cursive were two words: "I'm sorry." Were he to put his brown-nosing to use one last time, opening the repeatedly-creased vellum to find a letter in the same, beautiful handwriting. At the bottom was the address to her mansion estate, and a set of instructions on how to get there. Above it was the letter proper:

Please come to my estate if you
want to discuss this matter further.
Below are instructions on how to get there.
I will repay you for the fare in full.

As you may have concluded, I am a Demon Hunter.
And, please, don't worry about my shoes.

—A. L. Kingsford.

[Lazarus Carter]

A startled squeal split the weary calm of the restaurant as the tourist prodded once more into Adelaide's business; he stumbled a bit, not quite expecting that, and idly drummed his hand against the side of his ears. Okay, that was somewhat uncalled for. It appeared that after a few concerned and embarrassed glances around, she began to pack things together, before snapping back at the redhead: apparently, he'd broken that tested aura of cool surrounding her. "I've not a clue as to what you might possibly be referring to. However, your repeated snooping has worn my patience thin."

Lazarus blinked. He... felt kind of bad, truth be told. He hadn't really expected her to react like this; but retrospectively viewing his actions, they had been out of line, and other than "I'm tired", the teen Hunter really had no excuse. But as hurried and impossible as it was, there couldn't have just been a morbid curiosity lingering there: it was too coincidental. Whether they shared a genealogical origin millennia ago or not, she had been brushed by that other dimension, inexplicably tarred with the paints of fate, and contaminated, just like he. "I suggest you keep your intrusive nose out of others' affairs before you land yourself in considerable trouble one day, Lazarus." Having scribbled down on a small piece of paper which she defiantly folded up into little pieces, the lawyer triumphantly marched off before the redhead could even stammer some semblance of apology.

As she brushed past him with an air of curious though still very much condemning upset - apparently abandoning her client, too - the teen slumped back against his seat and pressed his head against an open two-finger grasp with a resonating sigh. "Great," Laz murmured. "Way to go, Lazarus, go and ruin someone else's day just cause you're bored..." Shaking his head and resting it back against the cool leather of the chair, he wasn't quite sure what to do. He'd only been poking and prodding: but he knew now that his invasive and intrusive actions had been far from in line.

It was only when, after another five minutes, that he decided that he really wanted to start heading off, Lazarus lowered his head and cast his gaze back out over where the young solicitor had been and onto the queue once more; and the small rectangle of paper caught his eye, marred gently with the ink. It was the note she'd been scribbling: and she'd forgotten it? Even from first impressions, the dumbstruck and clueless Carter child could tell that wasn't like her in the slightest. Punctual, affluent, precise; no, leaving things behind really wasn't befitting the presumed modus operandi of the young woman.

Forgetting immediately his guilt, that morbid curiosity overtook Lazarus once more; and he darted around the table to snatch up the paper, unfolding it, though already being filled with a sense of loathing for it. However: when he truly pulled the paper open proper, he realised that it was infact, directed towards him: dissuading some of the damning fault for the day's events he held still. "I'm sorry. Please come to my estate if you want to discuss this matter further. Below are instructions on how to get there. I will repay you for the fare in full." ...what? Reading, the teen wasn't entirely sure that what he was believing was real - for it felt truly far from it in actuality.

"As you may have concluded, I am a Demon Hunter. And, please, don't worry about my shoes." The Hunter smirked and folded the paper back up. Beyond that had only followed a neatly-written and well-structured address. Sure, this could have been a Templar trap; but it was a little elaborate for it. The girl had seemed truly upset by the whole affair: so either she was a great actor, or telling the truth. Shaking his head, he tucked the slip of vellum into his pocket and sighed. Well, at least he'd been on the money with his rapid-fire accusation. Point Lazarus.

With that, the Hunter decided it was high time he made his way over there for tea, an apology, and a little demonic consultation. Collecting his belongings and adjusting his trilby, he began to make his way over to the hire car queue; which had, as if by some stroke of divine intervention, slimmed down by a massive degree. With a broad smile all the way there, he lingered in the line, waiting for the people in front of him to shift along, slowly as it did - it seemed today had taken an abrupt turn for the more interesting, indeed.

*****

5:16PM, GREENWICH MEAN TIME
FEBRUARY 2ND, 2012
KINGSFORD ESTATE
KNIGHTSBRIDGE OUTSKIRTS
LONDON

After an hour or so of twiddling his thumbs in the queue - which he had thought to dwindle - Laz finally emerged with a car in his name, hired for two months solid, though the consultation had been at best shaky. The man giving him the vehicle had taken to giving the exhausted teenager - and the bags under his eyes, not to mention the unnatural ghost-like pallor he held after a solid thirty hours of consciousness - a set of quite suspicious glances. However, by around three, the Hunter finally managed to set off: and was on the road once more.

The road into outgoing Heathrow traffic, either way. For a while he dallied in traffic jams, sighed, and scrolled through the utter shit being played on the local British radio stations - save for a welcome burst of Frank Sinatra - irritatedly. But in truth none of this was because he wanted to get moving, or because he wished to reach home quicker: it was because he was curious. When it came to the girl - the solicitor - he felt almost a strange compulsion, an odd desire towards this, a morbid curiosity like a lingering twitch with the whole ordeal.

The clock ticked about half four by the time he came into Knightsbridge; and it was another solid forty five minutes of driving in circles in a manner akin to a headless chicken before he actually found himself on the way to the estate. The satellite navigation system in the car had been nothing short of useless: and eventually, Laz resorted to turning the damned mechanism off - moments away from driving his fist into it - and pulled up near someone who looked like they knew the place to ask for directions. Twelve minutes past five he pulled up into the estate - whistling all the way as he regarded what was undoubtedly the Kingsford domicile in all its grandeur and splendour - and parked up his shitty-looking Astra next to an array of spectacularly-maintained sports cars. Amongst them was the Aston Martin he'd ignored her getting out of.

Locking up his own vehicle as he exited and scratching his head with an agape jaw as he simply regarded the magnitude and beauty of the young solicitor's home, he shook it in sheer, delirious inability to truly process everything, and taking a quick peek at her cars. Bentley, Aston, Rolls... God, Lazarus had truly felt as if he'd died and gone to some sort of Knightsbridge heaven. Sure: the place was full of stick-up-the-ass old and retired people who seemed to do shit-all else but play golf and tinker with what remained of her stocks on a nice fat self-accumulated pension - but this was something different entirely.

Pulling himself from his entranced state, Lazarus managed to buckle up the willpower to move over her driveway and up towards the front gates which were a grandiose preface to the entire estate, feeling about six inches tall and entirely inadequate with his wallet. Which sat very, very light in his pocket as he drew up to some complex-looking intercom panel and pressed down on the buzzer. "Uhhh..." He was still somewhat awestruck. "Yeah, my name's Laz Carter, I'm here to see Miss Kingsford...?" Without a response, it wasn't long before the speaker thrummed and the gates moved open with an electrical hiss.

With that, he begun the march up to Adelaide Kingsford's doorstep: utterly unsure of how to proceed, hoping she'd come down to meet him or something similar. God forbid he was left to find her alone within this... palace.

[Adelaide Kingsford]

Hours had passed since the young Kingsford woman left the airport, seemingly cheesed off with the red-headed Lazarus Carter for incessantly badgering her while she waited for her client to show up for a scheduled meeting, which, regrettably, had to be pushed to a later date because of her premature exit. The fact of the matter was that, either through some kind of natural instinct or by sheer dumb luck, he had somehow discovered that Adelaide was more than meets the eye. Though he was spot on for his hasty suspicions, to discuss such a topic in public was far too dangerous for the two of them, especially since the lawyer wasn't too sure about the whole ordeal to begin with.

Thus, she had to make a few last-minute alterations to her itinerary and opted to lead the young man to the outskirts of Knightsbridge, where her great mansion estate resided, via that note she left him while her practiced and equally duplicitous acting skills kept him occupied. While she waited for Lazarus to arrive, Adelaide took it upon herself to freshen up by getting a warm shower out of the way, while her maidservants were tasked with the cleaning and ironing her casual garments for the evening, as well as dinner preparations. There wasn't a shred of dubiety within her mind that he would be famished the moment he turned up; she was hungry herself, and it would kill two birds with one stone.

The affluent young lady had just finished putting her flaxen hair into a neat-looking bun before the intercom system near the mansion's front door emitted a buzzer sound, signalling that someone at the gates was requesting to enter her property. Pressing the speaker button, her ears were greeted by the sound of an awestruck Lazarus Carter, apparently dumbfounded by the sheer immensity and opulence of her abode. No attempt was made to chat with him; she figured there would be plenty of that indoors. Instead, the solicitor pushed another button, causing the front gates to electrically open so that her guest could pace his way to the entrance at his own leisure.

"Madeline, could you get the door for me, please?" Adelaide called out, expecting the maid in question to obey with patent timeliness and matching courtesy to boot. "I'll be in the Piano Room, if you could promptly direct my guest there." Swiveling on the heels of her loafers, which were far cheaper than the Swiss monks that the Carter boy had accidentally ruined earlier, the lawyer of prestige meandered her way through the brightly lit and well-furnished Lounge Room on the left before turning right to enter the chamber which housed her prized Steinway & Sons grand piano, shaded a rich black and polished to mirror-like perfection as it sat over a large, red-and-gold Persian carpet. Adelaide took a seat on the bench that came with the massive, eighty-eight keyed instrument, shuffling through a stack of note sheets seconds later.

Meanwhile, the servant named Madeline, having just recently finished dusting her employer's bedroom, was well on her way to the mansion entrance to greet Lazarus. As soon as she opened the lacquered portal barrier, the young man would be greeted not only by a rush of chill (courtesy of Adelaide's central air conditioning system), but also by a petite-looking young woman no older than twenty. She wore a rather modest take on the French maid ensemble while her hair, black as a raven's feathers and grown to reach an impressive length, was twisted into a Dutch braid. "Welcome, sir." She received him with a polite curtsy of sorts, closing the door with a gentle push. "Miss Kingsford will be waiting for you in the Piano Room. To your left, then take a right as you enter the Lounge."

If one were to put their ears to the wind, the harmonious melody of piano keys could be heard nearby from where Lazarus and the lady Kingsford's maidservant were currently situated; this piece in particular was a song that Madeline could immediately recognize, as her employer often played it as a warm-up exercise before moving on to a harder piece. Frédéric Chopin, Prelude, Opus 28, Number 15—colloquially known throughout the music world as the "Raindrop Prelude". "I do enjoy it when she plays Chopin. He was truly a marvelous composer." She commented to herself with a cheerful smile, then turned to Adelaide's guest. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll have dinner and tea ready shortly." With a bow of polished etiquette, the maid left Lazarus to his own devices, confident that he would have no trouble finding his way.

Adelaide Kingsford herself merely waited for her much, much less wealthier guest to enter the Piano Room as she continued to time her chords with surgical accuracy, having played the prelude so many times that it merely took her a few moments to recall the sequence purely by memory. Whether or not Lazarus would recognize Chopin's work was still up for debate, but it would be an excellent conversation starter nevertheless.

At least, before the two of them got down to business.

[Lazarus Carter]

"Welcome, sir." Lazarus blinked as the doors opened and he was greeting by a particularly good-looking woman maybe a couple of years his senior, and only a few younger than Adelaide - long black hair tied back and some sort of maid's outfit gave the entire affair a somewhat surreal undertone; but that had been present ever since he'd drawn up to the house in his shitty little hire car. The redhead only stuttered as the maid continued. "Miss Kingsford will be waiting for you in the Piano Room. To your left, then take a right as you enter the Lounge."

British too. Though most of the South London girls he'd seen wore revealing and promiscuous clothing, and tended to spend their weekend evenings either in a bar or violently upheaving the contents of their stomach a little outside; the class here was unreal. The interior foyer of Adelaide's manor was cavernous and impeccably-kept as was to be expected. "Thanks," He murmured, taking a grand ocular sweep of the sights that greeted him, not really paying attention, before remembering how attractive she was. Lazarus really hoped that Adelaide kept her tea on the bottom shelf.

"I do enjoy it when she plays Chopin. He was truly a marvelous composer." Laz nodded. For all the drinking, the debauchery, the common taste; when it came to music, his palate was as wide as ever. He'd recognised the prelude as being a work of Chopin from his entry; the redhead found himself having a particular memory for the more distinctive tunes that seemed to embed themselves in his head. Not to mention that his adoptive mother had taken on a particular fondness for the piano; even he had some limited knowledge with the instrument, but not quite as grand as this. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll have dinner and tea ready shortly."

With that, the maid left, though the teenager couldn't help but try and sneak a look at her hindquarters as she cheerfully moved away, making a gentle movement with his jaw and a subconscious nod of the head, as if to say "not bad". But the chauvinistic typical male attitude aside, Laz tried to wipe the afterimage of the maid's buttocks from the visual aspect of his psyche, and tried his best to remember her directions. Left then right as he entered the lounge. Left, right, entered the lounge. He mulled over it a couple of times, sure that it would be simple.

It appeared Madeline's faith in Lazarus to find his way so simply was ill-placed. Not used to buildings of this magnitude unless they were museums - which had a goddamn map - he strolled idly through the halls attempting to follow the directions. But, really; the reason for his lackadaisical tardiness was infact that at every turn, something new caught his eye and entranced him. The masonry. A collection of ornaments. Portraits hung on the wall. The particular carpentry of a certain plinth. The Carters had raised him in a household that many in Helena had considered to be fairly wealthy - it was a white-collar family that got by and had a decent enough lifestyle. But this brought a new meaning to affluence.

It was only when he entered the Piano Room that he caught sight of the rich, black piano that the solicitor, now garbed in significantly less uptight clothing, sat behind over the fantastic hue of a hand-woven Baltic carpet of some sort. With a brief smile he stepped in; at least there was some essence of familiarity here, something keeping him from feeling as if he'd simply slipped into some dreamscape exploration of the house he wished that he could have grown up in. "I imagine you get people telling you how beautiful the place is," Lazarus commented with now a full-blown grin. "Chalk me up for one more. This is possibly one of the nicest houses I've ever seen." Not to mention the biggest.

Having broken through the worst of his fatigue by dropping back a few cans of cheap, low-quality energy drink on the way, Lazarus moved up to the piano and eagerly watched Adelaide play, figuring she'd taper off the Prelude at some point. "Chopin, right?" Another grin. "Don't be surprised, I'm completely uncultured." Well... just a little. He tried to forget the fact that he had openly stared down at the buttocks of the lawyer's housekeeper without any restraint. But, yeah; a childhood in music - even if shooting hoops or sprinting had been what he'd really been coached to do - plus the course he was studying at Southbank gave him a wealth of knowledge when it came to everything from the medieval and the baroque right through to the modern day.

"Listen," His face, to make a change, took a more serious and less playful tone. "I'm sorry about pointing that out in public earlier." The way in which he presented the apology was genuine; but it was less sorrowful and more simply concerned for both him and her. "It was out of place and it was risky." The teen followed his self-critique up with an explanation, however. "But we're in short supply around here, far as I can tell. I had to know."

[Adelaide Kingsford]

As Adelaide's fingers glided across the keys of the piano, striking each one that followed the last with gentle pressure so as to produce the right pitch and tone of every sound, Lazarus' teenaged voice broke the solemn Chopin melody by complimenting the structure and tidiness of her sterile, cavernous home, further implying that all of her previous visitors had given her similar positive critique. She gently smirked, eyes focused on her playing, "It's rather modest compared to some of the other estates in Knightsbridge." She deflected with dispassionate indifference; even outside of work, she radiated with a thick atmosphere of professionalism that seemed to blend with the pristine condition of her abode. Order, structure, complete personal control over the self. There was a solid chance that Lazarus may have actually become astonished by the vast gap in their wallets, and she sympathized with him.

She continued manipulating the keys of her Steinway with perfect accuracy, causing hammers to gently tap down on the metal strings within the black grand piano, thus replicating the harmonious wedding of sounds that made the composition, evidence of Chopin's magnificent technique and skill. "Chopin, right?" Lazarus' guess hit the bull's eye like a throwing dart, but it hardly impressed the lawyer; the late composer was a common topic of discussion in the musical world—surely him of all people would know his works. "Don't be surprised, I'm completely uncultured." He continued, trying to sound modest before the woman born into a cultured environment. Adelaide chuckled lowly as she continued her performance. "You did mention your education in music," She interjected with a faint smile. "I only play this for a warm-up. I prefer Saint-Saëns over him, honestly."

With a final combination of notes, the prelude finally drew to a close, and instigated a break in the seconds-long silence that followed after Adelaide concluded her exercise. "I'm sorry about pointing that out in public earlier." The blonde woman's ears perked up while she flipped through the other music sheets; she instinctively knew what Lazarus was referring to, and was quickly reminded of the tantrum she was forced to "throw" to deter unwanted attention. "It was out of place and it was risky." Not a single peep exited her throat. He was just stating the obvious at this point. "But we're in short supply around here, far as I can tell. I had to know."

"Well, if you simply had to know," Adelaide emphasized with backbone in her tone of voice, not quite as angry or scornful as what she made herself come off like back at the airport, but enough to implicate that she did take his intrusiveness somewhat personal. "You should have been more discreet about it." She flashed a glare at the redhead, keeping it held in place before a sly grin consumed her thin, boyish lips. "I practiced classical theater when I was a little younger; it's definitely an asset to have when dealing with pompous twits in the courtroom."

Just like that, in that very moment which would have almost certainly taken Lazarus by surprise or some kind of disbelief, it was as if her cold and distant persona had vanished altogether. Lazarus Carter was face-to-face with a young lady that clearly defied every known stereotype and misconception tacked on to the "snobby rich person" archetype. She never flaunted her theatrical skills, nor her huge gobs of money or super-fancy cars. In ways that he probably wasn't aware of, they shared a lot of things in common—including their destinies as Demon Hunters.

Right. Speaking of which, upon remembering exactly what he was trying to hold a chat with her over, the young woman put down her composition sheets and stood up off the piano bench. "Have a seat in the Lounge. Dinner and tea should be prepared." Adelaide invited Lazarus as she brushed her way past where he was currently, still carrying a sort of regal posture though without the typical nose-in-the-air attitude. "While we're waiting to be served, I'd like to know more about these people." She shot a glance over her shoulder, green eyes resonating with a more serious look. "Demon Hunters, as they're called."

She continued her way to one of the French-influenced loveseats, soft and plush on one's backside and made with an inoffensive rose pink-hued upholstery, given lavish gold trim and supple to the touch. She sat down, eyes glued to Lazarus. "As I've said on the note I left behind, I'm one myself," Adelaide went on, then looked elsewhere, reminded of Alex Stone. He never did provide enough details involving the purpose behind their existence, so there simply was no better opportunity to probe for answers than now, was there? "Alas, I'm sadly lacking on information, aside from where it is they're able to go." The way she stressed her words, much like the Carter boy did earlier, suggested that she knew of the realm of the damned, the Christian version of Hell. Inferis.

Adelaide emanated a detached sigh, straightening her back out to make herself appear more ladylike, more evidenced to her cultured background. "Thus, I'd like for you to divulge as many details as you know about these Demon Hunters," She politely demanded of Lazarus at long last, returning her verdant green gaze back in his direction—before adding on an addendum, one with a dark undertone to it. "If you're one yourself, that is." She had to be absolutely, precisely certain that this fellow was who he claimed to be, one of these vanquishers of the night. Otherwise, she would have inadvertently set herself up for some kind of trap.

[Lazarus Carter]

"I only play this for a warm-up. I prefer Saint-Saëns over him, honestly."

Laz shrugged, retaliating quickly. "Tchaikovsky all the way if we're talking Romantics." But he digressed. They weren't here to exchange bullshit pleasantries and talk about 19th century composers - as entertaining as it might have been. They were here to talk shop, and he was here to get to the point - Nephilim needed new members, and he needed more contacts to chalk down in his book for London. "We're getting off-topic," He continued with a smile, turning back to the issue of the airport.

"You should have been more discreet about it." Laz caught the glare and responded with a face of simple lack of emotion, almost apathy on his pallor. Yeah, sure, he'd acknowledged that and apologised already. What was further agitation achieving, aside from bolstering her ego, intentionally so or not? "I practiced classical theater when I was a little younger; it's definitely an asset to have when dealing with pompous twits in the courtroom." The redhead acknowledged her concession with a gentle nod.

She had been good enough. "Yeah, you got me. Guilty as charged." He threw his hands up in mockery of surrender with a light chortle. "Til I found the note, at least. Nice touch." With that, he lowered his hands once more. All of this bullshit was fine and well; but now Lazarus knew that Adelaide was a Demon Hunter from the note - after all, what reason had she to lie, even if this was an elaborate Templar scheme? - he needed get down to business. None of this dinner and tea bullshit. Enough of the British formal pleasantries. Two things he never thought he'd find himself saying but found himself perfectly sympathising with at this moment in time.

Adelaide's next announcement was one of the same essence and vein of formality that seemed to frustrate him. "Have a seat in the Lounge. Dinner and tea should be prepared." For now he could tolerate it; but sooner or later they'd have to cut to the point and find themselves an aptitude test. She would be a perfect new recruit - if the day job and, well, fuck, manor alone didn't stop her from adding Nephilim duties to her regime. "While we're waiting to be served, I'd like to know more about these people. Demon Hunters, as they're called." Picking himself up from the chair he sighed and began to follow her, moving into a brisk stroll to align himself with the solicitor proper.

Great. "As I've said on the note I left behind, I'm one myself," The explanation could come later. He'd learnt by numbers. Through experience. Was it so hard for everyone else to do the same? "Alas, I'm sadly lacking on information, aside from where it is they're able to go." Well; this was part of the job, it seemed. And he got off easy on the other front, just taking "student" as his named occupation, all he had to do was listen and regurgitate facts with an idle sprinkling of logic - but here he had to dictate what he knew. It was shit he'd heard and reiterated himself time and time again.

As she took her seat, he figured it was sign for him to do so accordingly, and found his place on one of the lavish loveseats, arching an eyebrow as he sat down. "Thus, I'd like for you to divulge as many details as you know about these Demon Hunters," Goddamn these were soft. Say what you would about the upper class, they knew how to take care of one's posterior. "If you're one yourself, that is." His eyes sharpened like crimson arrows and he locked gazes with the lawyer's emerald stare once more. Lazarus Carter took a deep breath and laid back. It was time to explain this proper. Get through it once and once alone.

"If I wasn't a Hunter, that would make me one of three things." Lazarus explained slowly. "A Templar, which would mean you'd now probably have the back of your skull, roughly an area about this size," He said, raising his clenched fist between them so it was in perfect view. "Turned to a bloody mulch." Official Templar code was to detain them, or so he thought: but this was still an accurate surmising of their pragmatic lethality. "A Ritualist, which would mean that you'd probably have your hands and feet bound, before being thrown into the cellar of an abandoned abattoir, at this point," This was... probably slightly tactless. She was still a newbie. But a solicitor all the same. She would have seen horrors in the courtroom, corporate or criminal. "Not to mention that our first encounter wouldn't have been nearly as civil as it was, say what you will."

Now for the third and final. "Or some depraved wannabe who wishes he had an age-old heritage like mine or yours, Adelaide." With that, Lazarus stood to his feet and sighed. "Truth is, I don't know much about all this shit. Probably only marginally more than you. I've been playing on instinct these past couple of months." With that, he extended his hand. "But what I do know I can't tell you. It's impossible to put it into words. It's emotional. Spiritual. It's a connection you can only truly understand once you've experienced it yourself." And with that, he extended his hand down to the golden-haired lawyer.

"What I do know, I can't tell you." Then he formed a coy smile to match her sly grin from earlier. "But I can show you."

[Adelaide Kingsford]

"If I wasn't a Hunter, that would make me one of three things." Adelaide pursed her lips, folding her hands into one another and in front of her face, leaning in so that she could use her upper legs as a surface to prop her arms up by the elbows. The infamous "Gendo pose". All she needed were some white gloves and the ominous, egg-shaped glasses and she was set. "A Templar, which would mean you'd now probably have the back of your skull, roughly an area about this size," Lazarus clenched a fist and showed it to her. "Turned to a bloody mulch." The lawyer blinked in mild shock. Templar? As in, the Knights Templar? She wanted to believe the suggestion was entirely rubbish, considering that they hadn't existed since the High Middle Ages, but after reminding herself of that encounter with a living, breathing, real Demon, she had no choice but to keep herself quiet for the moment.

"A Ritualist, which would mean that you'd probably have your hands and feet bound, before being thrown into the cellar of an abandoned abattoir, at this point," Another title was dropped, and it was one the blonde solicitor wasn't familiar with. However, Lazarus's rather unsavory description of this particular kind of individual served to remind Adelaide of a former client of hers from several months back; a young girl who had been abducted and kept locked in the basement of her psychotic older nephew's country home. Hopefully she's recovered by now—nobody should have to go through something like that. "Or some depraved wannabe who wishes he had an age-old heritage like mine or yours, Adelaide." The affluent young woman furrowed her eyebrows, confused by what he meant with the words "age-old heritage".

She was given no time to ask if the two were related somehow before Lazarus sighed and removed himself from the loveseat. "Truth is, I don't know much about all this shit. Probably only marginally more than you. I've been playing on instinct these past couple of months." Adelaide furrowed her eyebrows, evidently upset by the redhead's confession. So he had been taking wild swings at his Demon Hunter occupation this entire time? "But what I do know I can't tell you. It's impossible to put it into words. It's emotional. Spiritual. It's a connection you can only truly understand once you've experienced it yourself." She watched on as he reached a hand to her with a fox-like grin on his pallor. "But I can show you."

In that very instance, as Adelaide looked at Lazarus, she was reminded of that other man. Alex Stone. His smile was gentle and delicate like his face was; while this one's, the redhead's, was confident and energized, so cocksure of himself despite the fact that he was just as clueless about being a Demon Hunter as the lawyer was. He was unprepared, disorganized, completely lacking in preparation. Absence of structure. Chaotic. If this was how he saw the current situation, then how does he go about his daily routine?

With one final sigh, Adelaide stood up and clasped Lazarus Carter's hand, firmly, and with the same strength any man would use. Her expression was locked into one of resolve, entirely serious and contrasting the sly grin worn by the university student with brick red hair. "Then prove it." She challenged him. To be truthful, the lawyer was unsure of her decision to go through with this. She was ill-suited for spontaneous action, and preferred early preparation and conditioning before setting out on an excursion of some sort. But it was a decision made solely on instinct; and Adelaide never went a single day without resorting to it at some point. Perhaps Lazarus could show her what it meant to be a Demon Hunter. And perhaps not.

There was only one way to find out.

"Take me straight to Hell."

[INTO INFERIS]

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