Demons (Damirae)

Chapter Fifty

HOLY FUCKING SHIT! CHAPTER FIFTY!!! We have come so so so far...I don't know what to say other than THANK YOU 🙏🙏🙏

*cough* now, on with the story!

***

Managing a sniffle of 'good morning', the blonde slid in to her seat at the kitchen island, head ducked, nose pink. Drawing her rugged locks about her face so as to attract the least attention possible (a fruitless endeavour), the once boisterous, animated character was reserved to no more than a shameful recluse, begging to be hidden from the limelight she once basked in.

Wide, cautious eyes darting to the digital clock resting on a nearby counter, she releases a shaky breath. Drawing the borrowed cardigan tighter about her battered frame, the woman lifted her head like a kicked puppy, her unstained, split lips forming a natural pout.

She observed the two seated opposite her with childlike fascination, her eyes following their every gesture. Subtle glances. A light nudge of the shoulder. A lifting of the corner of the lips. Easy, free-flowing conversation.

They were an elegant pair: both of them harsh lines and practiced poise, carrying unnerving airs of regality that the lady was unaccustomed to. Something lay behind their simple, yet inhumanly graceful, movement: something disconcerting; something fascinating. Something that made her eyes not want to leave them, lest this strange spectacle escape and be lost forever.

They felt like...more. Like with each move -each manoeuvre- their muscles were laughing at the idleness of others. Like the flick of a finger, or the raising of a mug, held more power than the united roar of a crowd comprised of the entire human race.

In a single glance at her, the two had proved themselves to be as unnatural as the woman had thought. His eyes...her eyes...the woman had never seen those shades -and she'd seen her variation of eyes, gauged out the most unique of them with her bare hands.

Without a doubt, they were two of the most enchanting creatures the blonde had ever come across.

Then again, that could have been the mere musings of a deranged woman, holding no merit to them whatsoever.

"Ms Quinzel,"

Harley fixed her state on the man who'd spoken (an elderly fella with an English accent, dressed to the nines) not knowing how to respond. That was her, wasn't it? Ms Quinzel? Huh, Harley- no Harleen- Harleen Quinzel. Dr Harleen Quinzel.

Me! Oh, that's me, I'm Harleen. Dr Quinzel. I-no Harley Quinn, that's who-NO, wait-

"Would you care for a cup of tea and a slice of toast?", the butler offered.

Surprised to find that she still had a voice, the blonde croaked an, "Alrighty...if it ain't no trouble..."

Face marginally creasing, the man's lips lifted (a smile, a good smile), "I assure you ma'am, it's no trouble at all."

Unbeknownst to her, the two majesties opposite had been watching the exchange, the purple-eyed one with empathy, the green-eyed one with keenness. They had a conversation before-hand, in the confines of a bedroom, about Harley's state of mind, exercising all their talents in human analysis to decide whether she could be trusted.

Robin and Raven (and everyone else in the house for that matter) would find no issues with her. Her mind was an electric band. It could be stretched and stretched and stretched, but eventually, rubber bands snap.

And Harleen had snapped something awful.

***

"Where is he?!", the Redhood growled, fists glinting in the pale lighting, spiked knuckle-dusters finding their mark.