Calling in Favours

[Oriena]

She presumed from the mark of concentration on her face that Claire really was trying, but no light sprung up around her, and no otherwordly persuasions encouraged the black to the pocket. Despite the plea, no light suffused Oriena's aura in response. The shadow of a smile played across her lips, calculating and devious. Whether they won or lost was inconsequential; what Ori wanted was to push Claire to the brink, until the light flooded in and she claimed the power that was her birthright. Compared to that goal, the taunting and jeers of the boys were little more than the activities of ants beneath her boot heel.

Her eye-contact didn't break; the boys were peripheral. If Claire really wanted to win, she's use her gift to do so. If she didn't, then clearly victory wasn't enough of a motivation to break the barriers that forced her to ask for Ori's aid instead. Her shoulder tilted in half a shrug, either in dismissal or apology; by the expression on her face, it wasn't entirely clear, but her eyes continued to burn with a light that did not look like the anticipation of loss. Her refusal did not come from cruelty, but she was not going to help.

Grinning, Viktor lined up his shot. The ball rocketed straight in. He laughed in surprise, then cast something of an apologetic, puppyish grin to Claire. Ivan sidled up with arms folded over his chest, reveling in the security of his pride allowed to say in tact.

"Ha. You lost, ladies. Time to pay up."

[Claire]

Claire watched with a great deal of dissatisfaction as her 8-ball was pocketed. Rather than cast her ire at Viktor, she turned and stuck Oriena with a knife-like accusation.

What's wrong with you bitch?!?

Their eye contact remained like two magnets positioned end to end, glued, and nearly unwrenchable. Until Viktor nudged her with his pool cue.

She spun and spat him an unamused look. The boys snickered. Whatever.

So it seemed her little hustle had come to an end. Claire could have used the money. It was a shame.

She downed the last of her beer and snatched her coat and bag.

"That's my curtain call, boys."
She circled the table.

But she found her way blocked by Ivan.

[Oriena]

The death-glare only prompted a sly smile. She sensed the mood turning sick, and revelled in it. Claire reacted to the loss gracelessly, but with all the aggressive feistiness that continued to stoke Oriena's interest. Though, why the fuck did Claire think she cared? If she was too weak to secure the win on her own, then she didn't deserve the help. It was a game, and one against inferior competition to boot; the two men had no idea of the real way in which they'd been hustled. She retrieved her phone and spent a moment sending a message before slipping it in her pocket. Ori was not a creature wedded to a premeditated plan, and her plans for the evening had just changed.

By now Claire had already snatched up her things. Viktor looked surprised at the way the evening had turned sour, and a little wounded at the way his playful poke of Claire with the pool cue had prompted a vicious reply. From the bar, Ori was aware of Gus' hard stare, summing up the swell of conflict, assessing the moment he'd need to step in and kick them all out. She flashed him a dark, knowing smile. Whenever there was trouble and she was here, she was inevitably at its centre.

"The fuck? Where'd you think you're going?"
Ivan blocked Claire's retreat, muscles corded tight in frustration. His volatilty had smoldered promisingly all evening, encouraged here and there by Oriena. Fuelled by alcohol, and now this betrayal, his skin flushed red with anger. His was not quite angled for violence - perhaps because he was staring down a woman - but his voice was heated and loud. The area around the pool table became a stage.

"Uh... Ivan..."


"No. A pair of nice tits, a pretty fucking smile - and she thinks she can just fuck off without paying up? A bet's a bet. You fucking lost."


It was only money, a commodity Oriena had not had to worry about in years. The sharp reminders of an impoverished childhood did not stoke any empathy for the reasons Claire might not be able to pay up, nor did she diffuse the situation as she so easily might have by offering up the stakes for them both. For a while she watched, amused. She had no delusions that Claire was unable to take care of herself, but ultimately she was not willing to let the woman go.

Vitkor was no problem, judging by the distance he kept and the uncomfortable way his fingers still clutched the pool cue, so Ori barely glanced at him as she passed. Claire too she mostly ignored, except to place herself close enough between her and Ivan to wrap her fingers against his cheek. For a moment he misinterpreted the gesture; by the hungriness of hs gaze, he perhaps thought she was offering recompense of another kind.

"And what're you going to do, Ivan?"


Her hand slipped lower, over his jaw and down to the tenderness of his throat. Stubble prickled her skin, the bob of a swallow rolling against her palm. Power wreathed her flesh, bringing the eerie light of a predator to her gaze, and apparently the seriousness of her threat translated. His jaw flexed. He said nothing. Ori's skin itched. She almost willed him to throw a punch. When he instead did nothing she pushed him away, discarding him along with her disappointment.

His hand cupped where her's had been protectively. "Crazy fucking bitch."


Oriena's fingers tangled in Claire's, welcome or not, to tug the woman out of the bar. Ivan didn't have it wrong. In fact, crazy bitch was probably about right.

[Claire]

Her bangs fell sharply across her eyes as she tilted her cheek toward her shoulder. Ivan was looming like a skyscraper as she contemplated a sarcastic retort, but Oriena glided near and curled her fingers around his throat. Claire was witness to an amusing deterioration of his expression from intrigued to disturbed in a few blinks of the eye.

He quickly backed down, likely still feeling her fingers digging into his flesh. The idea of it gave Claire chills, but they were warmed away by the pull of fingers laced through her own.

She let Oriena lead her away. As they walked, Claire shared a sharp smirk with her conspirator. "He thought I was pretty,"
she said, dry and dismissive.

Where Oriena led, Claire was content to follow. She did not elude herself into believing the other woman interfered out of the kindness of her heart. She had an agenda, but Claire did not mind. Everyone had agendas, Claire included.

[Oriena]

The ease with which they walked out of the bar was vaguely disappointing, dampening the thrill igniting her veins from the brief altercation. Claire was a better prize than a bar fight, but the frustration gnawed anyway, replaced by the chill of bitter Russian winter when they stepped out. Oriena's fingers trailed away languorously. "We're special, you and I."
A sharp smirk tugged her lips. "And you could have won that game. Since you're apparently so hard up, I'm surprised you couldn't find the motivation."
Cruelty laced the words, but so too did a heated tease. Claire was no delicate flower; Ori wanted to see her reaction, though it changed little of her intentions. "I have an offer."



Edited by Oriena, Jul 26 2014, 09:26 AM.

[Claire]

Claire winced like Oriena slapped an old bruise. Her reaction flipped sour. "I had the motivation."


Oriena pulled her hand away and Claire felt released. Her fingers instantly curled into a fist. "I had every intention of winning that game on my own merit,"
she trailed off, brows furrowed down angrily. "And if not, I hoped..."
but she didn't finish the thought.

Claire knew it was possible to cast a spell with her mind. She'd seen it done herself. Tony was the powerful witch that Claire seemed she was never going to be able to become.

The cold forced her to zip up her blue leather coat. She stuck her hands in the pockets as they walked, fingering a charm she kept in the right side.

"But what kind of offer are you talking about?"
Claire's suspicious gaze tilted toward Oriena. She clearly didn't trust the other woman, but that didn't mean she'd not consider anything she had to pitch.

[Oriena]

"And I lacked the motivation."
The words were both dry and dismissive. In fact she'd had every incentive to the contrary, including testing the boundaries of Claire's abilities. The fact they had lost did not dent her pride, nor the loss of cash - though of course neither of them had paid. Talk of hope twinged something Ori was inclined to stamp on - it wasn't likely to stand Claire in good stead, that brief glimpse of vulnerability. Who comes to Moscow without a job to go to anyway? And an American no less. A calculating eye took in the woman beside her, but she did not ask any of those questions. She was not overly interested in Claire's business, just in how it framed an advantage.

Claire's suspicion cast the tease of a smile over Ori's lips. Her skin glowed terribly pale in the snowy moonlight, marred by the faded bruise beneath her eye. A chaotic gleam lit her inside out, playful but ruthless in nature; she reeled in the curiosity like ribbon twisted through fingers, ever closer, grinning fiendishly. Feeding on the wariness, though in this case she meant no harm. Unfortunately she didn't carry business cards. Kallisti was a peripheral part of Oriena's life, the sharp end of a point made long ago. It still had its uses of course, but the day to day running was left almost exclusively to Carmen. Aside from the hiring; in that she still took a passing interest.

A sly grin accented the words. "The opportunity to earn your keep in Moscow."
The why hung unspoken, though Ori made no attempt at smothering the offer in false altruism. "If you're interested, you should find a place called Kallisti."

[Claire]

Kallisti?

Claire pulled a mini-Wallet from her bag and waved it at Oriena like she intended to swap digits. Instead, she did her own little search and very quickly ascertained the particular nature of the House in question.

"A strip club?"
Claire's tone was unimpressed. "I do have scruples,"
she added, acetic. She dropped the Mini back in the bag she hoisted on her shoulder.

A little hop and she placed herself smoothly in front of the taller woman. "Doesn't mean I'm not interested, but I'm not very good at taking off my clothes. Not on a stage any way. My talents are elsewhere. In Brooklyn I was a psychic. Would you like me to tell you your fortune?"


Her teeth bared a slight smile.

[Oriena]

She was unoffended by the tone of Claire's rebuttal, and answered matter of factly. "Scruples won't get you far in Moscow, sweetheart."
But the words had barely misted from her lips before Claire slipped out in front, baring her way. Ori's pause in stride took her a hair's breath nearer before she stopped, close enough to feel an impression of body heat, close enough for Claire to need to either stand her ground or back away. The gaze she angled down was languorous, suggestively explorative. A low chuckle preceded her words. "I don't doubt for a second the show would be sublime, whatever you say, but the job's not on the stage."


Curiosity lit a glint in Ori's eyes at the offer. Without knowledge of Claire's gift, she might have scoffed at the declaration of being psychic; certainly any interest would have plummeted immediately beneath the banner of crazy, but knowing what she did gave her pause. For all she trusted to her own intuition, she knew little about the gift that bloomed from sickness, or the extent of its capabilities. Future and fortune were petty things to a woman who forged herself in flames, and inwardly Oriena rankled at the notion of fate. But neither was she afraid.

"Go on. Impress me."

[Claire]

The show's not on the stage? Well that was a relief. But Oriena's reassurances were not lost on Claire. Nor was the feline smile that parted the Russian's glistening lips.

The invitation to impress curled challenge through her veins. So Claire nipped Oriena's hand from her side and nestled it in her own. The other woman's palm was smooth and soft as cold butter.

A sly smile touched the corners of Claire's mouth. If she saw anything in Oriena's palm, it went unremarked. Claire was a good show-woman. The best, actually. Since she possessed what her grandmother called the true sight.

She let Oriena's fingers slip away from her own to stroll in a circle around the other woman. She studied her closely, from hair to shoes.

Truly nothing struck Claire about Oriena. She'd hoped that by stalling that one of her visions might present itself, but so far, only one pricked the edges of her senses. It was like a sound far in the distance she could not quite discern. Like the roaring of a motorcycle. Then exhaust fumes wafted on the wind.

As she rounded Oriena from the other side, Claire's gaze was suddenly wrenched from the Russian's eyes until they fixed upon a spot above her shoulder. They darted from left to right like she was watching something speed past.

"A motorcycle,"
she said as though she hadn't meant to say it aloud. "Driving over the body of a man."
Sometimes she knew what visions like those meant, but other times she didn't. This was one such time.

Claire fixed upon Oriena until she searched for signs of recognition.