“Stop!” the real guard quakes from a pile of half-pulled on silvery uniform trousers, levering a charged pistol at the fleeing Kenny, as Mamlaurea exits the room of the man calling himself Assassin.
Her yellow silks sway in a chorus of floral bells against her brown wrinkles as she takes his helmeted face in her hands and brings him close to her, close enough for her stolen body’s warm incarnate breath to fog the man’s helmet.
“We will let him go, child,” she murmurs softly, gazing across the marble corridor cutaway at the fleeing shadow of Knindracastorblyledgespillioth, Kenny, who is escaping down the stairwells.
“We will have the patience of a spinner of threads at her lacework.”
Her eyes grow soft. Her face, too. Her darkening eyebrows lift like two benevolent tree branches, sheltering whatever her eyes rest upon.
Her toes and nails grow blue-black, like carrots whose roots have gone sour. The black travels upward, touching her shins, orchestrating an unrelieved climate of black around her person. Her skin is greying as she cups the guard’s face with her other hand, darting a slender fork of curved tongue back and forth, and her wrinkles fade into eggplant smoothness, like a raisin in reverse.
“W-w-who a-are you?” the guard cries, his tongue lolling as her clawlike fingers clench his neck and jaw.
Her bright fever eyes become as polished jets in their sockets; she turns them on him, and he is afraid.