Information

Lace has a minion!

Delicate the Lumoth

Lace

The

Angelic Legeica
Owner:

Pureflower

Age: 3 years, 5 months, 5 days

Born: November 20th, 2020

Adopted: 3 years, 5 months, 5 days ago

Adopted: November 20th, 2020

Statistics

Level: 13
Strength: 29
Defense: 10
Speed: 10
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 79
Books Read: 56
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Stylist

Pretty and Deadly

Introduction

Only a tourist would mistake her for the blushing Southern Belle she portrayed by day. If she averted her gaze during a staring contest, it was only because she'd assessed a potential threat as a weakling and deemed them not worth her time.

To the customers of Foddingham Fashions, she was a top-earning sales associate of the highest calliber, one well versed in all the latest London fashions and New York styles. Her nametag with its scrawling gold scroll read Beatrice. To members of the club she went by Blaze, a dancer of rare endurance who could outlast even the rave crowd. To those targets with a tempting enough bounty, her name was spoken only in whispers. Calamity, they called her. She had a literal kiss of death.

Only her husband got away with calling her Lace. Surprisingly tough despite her delicate apperance, she was as gorgeous as she was secretly deadly. A woman both tough as nails and more vulnerable to Leather's charms than she would ever willingly admit.

The Sales Associate

Sir Foddingham had come to America shortly after the Civil War with a vision of bringing high-end fashions from overseas as the frontier of that youthful country grew ever larger. Two hundred years later, Foddingham Fashions was a booming business with a location in each of the fifty States.

Beatrice worked in formal wear, though she volunteered to put in extra hours at the dresses department during prom season. There was something about flowing gowns that touched a special place in her heart. The rest of the year, it was her regulars and their daughters that kept her feeling that her work made a difference. Whether it was a young professional getting fitted for her first business suit or a plain-faced sophomore feeling like the princess of a fairy tale, there wasn't a single day on the job when she didn't go home wearing a smile.

Her golden locks fell nearly to her waist and each one was given strict attention every morning with a curling iron. Makeup was applied with an expert hand and she could apply lipstick with precision, even in the middle of a hurricane. She'd had to do so on two prior occasions, in fact. Her nails were always perfectly manicured and she never wore the same outfit twice.

She stopped by the perfume counter on her way to lunch, sampling the latest scents. She wasn't one to impulse buy but the wild musk of Desert Rose won her over. She knew what her husband liked.

He was waiting at the small bistro where they'd shared their first cup of coffee. He'd ordered for both of them...he was just as familiar with what she liked.

A polite peck on the lips. His eyes smoldered with the desire to peel away the lacy layers of taffeta straight out of some confectioner's dream. She smiled ever so slightly, mouthing a single word that only he could hear.

"Later."

They talked of mundane topics - work, weekend plans and weather. She thought it was adorable the way he kept tugging at his tie, loosening it ever so slightly each time. He'd freshen up before he returned to the set. A businessman jumping from the thirtieth floor wasn't exactly his idea of an ideal stunt but he never turned down work. Like his wife, he was dedicated to his art.

The tie would be the first thing to go when she had him alone, even before his shoes. She might wear it herself or use it to tease. Most likely, it would end up on the laundry heap.

She sighed. A two-o-clock appointment wouldn't allow her to linger. Her customer was a store regular looking to update her entire wardrobe after a big promotion. Beatrice would be working with the shoe department, jewelry counter and handbag experts to present the client with three design schemes, each carefully tailored to flatter the woman's unique body type.

What Beatrice earned on commission for such projects was more than most doctors earned in a month.

The Assassin

Calamity perched on the roof's edge, carefully controlling her breathing so that even the wary alley cats below were oblivious to her presence.

Her target came into her line of sight with all the grace of an angry hippopotamus. He was a few levels past drunk and not the least bit afraid of the dark.

Fool.

His grandfather had been the town hero, a few generations back. He felt entitled to egg cars with Northern license plates and rev his monster truck engine at anybody who wasn't a member of his "in crowd". If he'd kept his idiocy to petty crimes, she'd be spending the evening relaxing with her husband, not sitting with cheap gravel roofing poking her in the butt.

His cronies were jackrabbits that would be cowering in their beer-soaked burrows when they heard about his fate. They hadn't planned the fire. They'd only stood and watched it burn.

They were next.

He'd returned to the scene of his crime, laughing as he poked his toe into heaps of ashes. He picked up the skull that rolled out into the street, holding it beneath a streetlamp to study it.

The organization she worked for didn't have enough operatives to punish every criminal that avoided the justice system but those they deemed particularly awful found that getting away with murder was not so easy.

His bald head was practically a bullseye under the flickering lamp's light.

He slumped to the ground, dead without a sound. His arms and legs twitched in a sultry way as she slowly descended. She didn't relish the thought of going through this slimeball's pockets but it was part of the job.

The Loving Wife

She could rely on him to beat her home, feed the animals and have something irrisistible in the oven. Her husband was well in touch with his feminine side, despite his studded leather biker jacket and deeply tanned skin.

The cats twined possessively around her shins, setting the dogs leaning against the half-door to whining. All were orphans he'd found at the side of the road in this or that state. All were spoiled rotten.

He entered the dining room with an offering of sage-stuffed game hens braised in a cranberry chutney that would set angels singing. She unleashed the full power of her melodious sigh of contentment - a siren playing with her prey.

By the time she'd slipped into a little something with seafoam green lace in all the right places, the aroma of fresh peach cobbler was rising from their ancient oven.

"Lace."

His whisper sent an electric thrill through her bones. She melted willingly into his arms.

Evening was their time. They treated every single one like their honeymoon night.

The Past

She'd been raised by a grandmother who knew every trade secret for making fine lace.

Whether Bea was dangling from her knees in the peach orchard or singing off-key in the church choir, she'd always taken life as something to be shaped to your will at every given opportunity.

She'd never questioned her lack of parents. Her mother was the kind who trailed after rock stars, she'd been told. Her father might have been one of half a dozen men. Gran had invented a story that her parents were missionaries in Africa. She'd seen through it before the age of eight and decided not to pursue the matter.

The Organization recruited her out of high school. They were looking for able, intelligent athletes that didn't have their heads in the clouds. They'd even covered her tuition so she could attend a private college and earn her degree in Fashion Design. Her job gave her excellent cover for acting a little aloof.

Leather had been a lucky find. Marrying him had been the easiest choice of her life.

They'd met at a roadside diner. She'd seen a monstrous biker on his hands and knees, trying to coax a tiny kitten out of a storm drain.

The sight touched a part of her heart she hadn't known existed. She was owned by a particularly pompous tom who sometimes deigned to answer to the name of "Tiger".

She'd feared he would go roaring down the road at some point when he learned the entirety of all her different sides.

He knew what it was to be whole yet split into many parts.

He'd stayed.

He listened to every triumph and failure. He'd weaned her off of crappy frozen dinners, introducing her to the wonderful world of home cooking. He even helped her on the occasional mission.

He made her life complete.

The Club

Blaze touched up her makeup, adding a bit more kohl around each eye. The flawless blonde wig that was Beatrice's signature look rested on its stand, a total contrast to the unkempt black spikes that were her mother's genetic curse. The lady at the perfume counter would mace her if she ever walked into Foddingham's looking like her actual self.

Butch needed a lot less time to prepare. A skin-tight black leather vest was all that covered his muscular chest. Tight leather pants showed off his godly legs. She traced a fake black nail down his side, licking her lips. He growled in good-natured mock annoyance.

The bouncer knew them both. He waved them inside with barely a glance.

They danced.

The pound of the beat set them in motion. Sweat flew from her body as she clasped whatever hand was convenient. Partners came and went.

Her kisses were reserved only for Butch.

She sauntered over to a corner table as midnight approached, following the usual routine. Her contact slid a slip of paper over the smooth tabletop, one she pocketed after a cursory glance.

Butch made his casual approach, bending as if to whisper a suggestion in her ear. She unleashed a throaty chuckle, grasping his fingers and leading him to the staircase that would take them to the upper balcony.

Nobody noticed when they strode through a door marked "Maintenance". A sliding panel let them through to the condemned warehouse next door.

Her contact laid out the mission in brusque details. Butch would worry. He always did. She would laugh in private at his concerns, never to his face. She wouldn't hurt him, not for anything.

She was almost insulted by the assignment. A low-life thug who had only made the national news once. Such a small fish was well beneath her usual standards, but it had been a slow month.

Not every target could be the stuff of spy films, after all.