Of all the things to end up caught in when a throat needed to be slit, chiffon was one of the worst.

A tightly woven mess, the crimson of the skirt was splattered with an abstract pattern of dried dark brown that was as ugly as it was stubborn. Still, over the years she'd become a second sort of witch - had gotten almost unnaturally good at remedying this sort of domestic horrorshow. First with a bit of baking soda, then detergent, peroxide, a specialized cleaner - all of which with a thirty-minute soak in hot water between each round of concoction.

She supposed the safer bet would to be rid of the dress and let that be that, but stubbornness was a personal vice and after the second round of not fully releasing the stain, she felt it a challenge. Anything could be cracked, given the right tools and enough time to accomplish one's goals.

She had settled into Jamesville well enough in the months since setting foot in Syracuse, had adjusted easily to life with Caddoc near as they slowly worked through the puzzle that was Carmine. In the meantime, she practiced - honed her craft like any master would continue to do. The problem was that you could only reanimate so many birds and torn apart and decaying vermin left to rot on the asphalt. After a while, you craved something more complex.

When life did not provide, you made your own luck - even if it meant at the cost of your favorite dress.

Mood somewhat soured as she left the fabric to soak in the tub upstairs, she headed back down and went to the kitchen. Turning on the faucet, she left the water scalding and scrubbed at the corners of her nails and the intricate little grooves of her knuckles, brushed her hands pink and raw to rid herself of all evidence of violence.
 

Emma

Though quick to admit she spent an abnormally long time perusing graveyards and mortuaries, Emma did not regularly condone going dumpster diving for corpses; especially not when it took nearly an hour to pull a single hunt together, given that all thirty-odd fragments had been scattered between four separate bins. And even then, she was certain there were still a few fingers and toes missing -- perhaps a foot entirely. Given the state of several pieces, it was somewhat difficult to tell what was…what. 
 
But wading through suspiciously wet garbage bags, dislocated elbows, and torn cardboard had become something of a routine for Emma over the past couple of weeks. It was what had lured her to Syracuse originally, and it was what had led her to that particular Jamesville doorstep. Finally, she was confident that she’d found who she had been looking for -- though there was a sneaking suspicion that someone who'd scattered bodies like breadcrumbs wouldn’t be quick to answer their front door. 
 
With a fistful of bloodied chiffon clenched tightly at her hip, Emma backed resolutely away from the decidedly suburban front porch. A quick knock was too formal; it allowed every opportunity to be denied or ignored -- likely both. So instead, she edged around the house. She passed the closed garage, dipped down the grassy little alleyway. Stepped over the small patch of a garden that appeared as though planted purely for promotional purposes.
 
Once in the backyard, Emma beelined to the closest, widest window, certain that if she wavered, she’d quit entirely. Someone -- cloaked all too well by a veil of clouded glass and a shadowed kitchen – awaited her from within. Emma wasted no time in rapping her knuckles against the windowpane, simultaneously holding the scrap of crimson fabric up in clear view by her ear. 
 
"Excuse me?" she called out. "I believe this is yours -- you left it back on Hawley Avenue, thought you might want it back..."

There was the slightest sign of movement in her periphreal, just from the left side of the yard as she more or less focused on scrubbing her hands red and raw. She'd barely had time to dismiss it as a trick of the light when there was a girl knocking on her window like a barbarian and holding ... the surprised raise of her brows dropped just as quickly. Calmly, she looked back down and finished rinsing her hands and drying them methodically with a towel. Perhaps it seemed like she wasn't going to respond, in all reality she just wanted to make sure that she was smart about this.

Smoothing out the front of her blouse, she traced her fingers along a couple of the buttons and started for the screened back door. Glanced over to the knife block and decided which would be best, made no move to grab one even as she snapped the lock and pushed open the door. It creaked, she made a mental note to grease the hinges - another bullet point on a growing list of chores.

"Would you like to come in, Miss ...?"

It took close to an eternity (and then some) for the back door to groan open, filling the neatly trimmed yard with the metallic screech of door hinges rusted from disuse: a small but audibly loud detail to the otherwise perfect suburban vision.

All the while, Emma's thoughts flew: what the hell was she doing? Why was she even there? Was she out of her goddamn mind when she left Boston, sinking her teeth into some undead vision arising from another dumpster, in another alley, like some goddamn Nancy Drew?

Yeah, probably. But she'd made it that far.

Balling the bloodied chiffon into a tightly clenched fist, Emma decked her head and darted quietly inside.

"Emma," she snapped back in reply, sounding tougher than she felt as she drew herself up to her full, perfectly ordinary height. She took a moment to glance around the house. It looked like a model home -- gorgeous, but plain and modest in decor, without any trace of personality or homeowner history.

"Where's the other one? The man?" she asked, feeling an overwhelming sense of isolation radiating from the surrounding corners of the house. Not in another dumpster, surely. Not based off what she’d seen.

All animals, including humans, had a body language as complex as any spoken or written one could aspire to be. When she asked her name, the girl snarled and tensed, snapped at the air and seemed to posture. She did not take the bait, not even for a tepid nibble. Instead, she turned her back on the girl and turned round to the other side of the kitchen island once more. 

"Tocuh clairvoyance, Miss Emma? She evened out the very corners of the tea towel that hung neatly on the handle of the oven she rarely used. "That's a very useful skillset to have." She glanced up to make the compliment, finding that it made it worth a bit more. "Caddoc is home, don't worry - you have our attention, now what might we be able to do for you?"

Caddoc. So that's what he was called.

The dark-haired one, with hands as big and strong as his self-control. He got the job done quickly, quietly. With nothing less. Nothing more. This one, this woman, with hair as bold and harsh as her hunting style, seemed the perfect companion.

"A touch," Emma admitted tentatively, gravitating slowly to the granite kitchen island. “With certain people.” 

Clairvoyant was certainly one way to describe what she did, and if the woman proclaimed it ‘useful,’ she wasn’t about to deny her interest. Taking a steadying breath, Emma spread her palms flat atop the cool stone.

"I've-"

Emma paused. Honesty, she supposed, was likely the best route to take. Perhaps the riskiest, but perhaps provided her the highest chances of not being buried in a dumpster of her own.

"I've been following you. For a few cities now. I nearly reported you to the police the first time.'' It was something she'd done easily enough before, taking full advantage of anonymous tip lines for those whose deaths remained shrouded in mystery to all else. And she had been about to do it again without question -- a decision made as soon as something (someone) began reaching out from down the alleyway…

But another minute of listening later, and she quickly learned things hadn’t been quite so simple.

"I want to know what you're doing," Emma announced forcefully, digging curled knuckles into the counter. "Because I think I want to help."