462/For Lease: The Bad House

For Lease: The Bad House
Date of Scene:	17 May 2017
Location:	Harlem, New York City
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Mercy Thompson

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Loki has posed:
Harlem rush hour snarls Queens, and leaves Brooklyn a morass of cars that don't move. Pedestrians rule the roost rather than those clogged concrete arteries. Twilight is coming to the city; the sun melts into the west. It's the time when most open signs flick off and the city comes alive in other ways. Bars call to the thirsty and dens of iniquity promise all kinds of music and diversion. Not all is legal. Not all needs to be.

The last customers are presumably gone or heading out. Not the sort of hour where anyone wants to loiter, driven by hunger. Which makes it suitable for Loki Odinson; he simply steps out of nowhere, manifesting where nothing occupied the space. A quick jump drops him from the adjacent roof to the ground as if nothing were the wiser, and he covers the short distance to the doorway of Mercy's garage. This may be defined as rude, invasive even, but who is going to argue his right to be there? As long as the door is unlocked, he will enter; otherwise he gives a tidy knock. Might as well wait until she shows up, and in the meantime, he smudges his fingers together. The scent of rum and lime are fairly strong. Indicative of what he was up to?

Not likely.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy's place of business is quite open still. She often holds odd and irregular hours, sometimes for customers, but mostly for herself. For the various personal projects she's working on.

This late afternoon, early evening, is no different. When Loki comes upon the door he'll find it quite unlocked, which allows him to enter easily enough. The front office is similar to when he was here last. Plastic chairs, plastic countertop and a desk behind said countertop. Behind the countertop is also the connecting door that leads into the garage proper where cars and Mercy can be found.

While she's not in the front office it's likely easy to figure out just where she is, as the clang of metal clashing against metal can be heard from the garage. That sound only pauses when sensitive ears pick up the slight swoosh of the door opening. Cocking her head, Mercy will say, "One sec!"

That second turns into three of four, before the woman pushes the connecting door open and stepping through. She's busily wiping her heads with a well-used towel as she automatically says, "What can I help you with?" And as those words leave her lips, Mercy will finally raise her eyes away form her hands to see who she's addressing. Surprise will etch across her features briefly when she spies Loki, having not expected him to be standing there. "Liam - fancy meeting you here." A corner of her mouth has likewise quirked upward into a grin, as she tucks the towel into the pocket of her coveralls. The scent of alcohol and citrus is noticed by Mercy, but for now she doesn't remark upon it.

Loki has posed:
Now if the rest of the city - nay, the world - operated the same way that Mercy did, Loki probably wouldn't occasionally try to conquer the place every few centuries. He forgets how unpleasant the effort can be, when sometimes saucd and overwhelmed by his own excellence.

"I rather feel like I should have found a Golf or a Rabbit with a disaster of a transmission, or a crooked axle, for you. Not really much of a challenge," he muses. "Maybe an electrical glitch that you can only reproduce three times out of twenty." Is that how one woos a mechanic to assist one another?

His long fingers slip down to his pockets and remain squarely hooked therein, giving that beautiful coat a bit of a different drape. It still suits him, though. "I discovered something that might suit your particular talents."

Is that not something worth luring out the coyote with? Does she suffer from the same fatal promise of curiosity that he does? "If anythng you have will keep, let's be off. I promise to have you home before curfew, barring any unforeseen circumstances."

What with how few details he's sharing, that might be all of them. Loki shrugs a shoulder and grins, already turning imperceptibly for the door. "We won't even have to rely on one of those noxious rail lines to get about. It's nowhere near a station."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The mention of the Gulf or Rabbit (even the mention of a transmission problem) causes Mercy's gaze to brighten with amusement. "For future reference, I prefer the Rabbit -". Only because her current project is rebuilding one that was so abused.

And while she could remark about those finicky electrical problems, she doesn't, only because he offers those tidbits of information. While she'd like to say she's not overly curious, she really is. It's part of her nature, it goes hand in hand with that chaotic part of herself. What's the saying, 'curiosity killed the cat', the same can be said for the coyote. Too smart for its own good.

The amusement held within her gaze turns to something more curious now, as she considers what problems she could effectively help with. "Let me take a guess here and assume you're not talking about car problems." And while that wasn't necessarily a yes or no answer, she's already peeling off her mechanic coveralls she wears. Her clothing beneath it is quite serviceable - a short-sleeved black shirt, a pair of well worn blue jeans and her ever present steel-toed boots. Folding the coveralls, Mercy will place them atop the countertop, before she's stepping towards Loki.

The sign at the door will be turned from open to closed with a quick flick of her wrist, even as she offers an amused snort at the mention of curfew. "Been a few years since I had one of those, but if we do run a little late I'm pretty sure I know all the secret ways in so I'm not caught."

His clear distaste for the subway earns another humorous look from the woman. That look stays upon her features as she steps out the door with him, making sure to lock the front door with a jingle of keys. "You're not a fan of cars, nor subways, what mode of transportation do you like? And teleportation can't be your answer - this is 'normal' modes of transportation I'm asking about."

Loki has posed:
He can appreciate Mercy's forthrightness, and choice of the cabriolet version of Volkswagens over other ones. She better watch out. He may dump a Vanagon on her just to see what her reaction is.

Rather, he buttons two of the toggles on his coat higher. "I daresay if I told you, my lady, you would be direly disappointed. I know several of the same quick ways that you do. Teleportation is ideal to nearly every other method when it comes to a to b. Unfortunately your world is one of the very few where it is //not// common transportation." Blame it on Midgard, which he does. Fingers go back into his left pocket, his right arm offered to her. "A stroll, as it happens. How better to appreciate the sight sf the city? The smells, the texture, the sounds and the tastes, they are all underappreciated inside a moving box. I suppose a bicycle has some advantages, but walking takes us down the routes less traveled. And I shall be the first to tell you taking your time to savour things is very often worth it. Wouldn't you agree, or does your own experience indicate otherwise?"

It is, of course, easy to take one's time when one can manipulate time like a leash.

The route out into the dusk is bound to be, well, more than a little circuitous. He could jump through a portal, but no, the lady nixed that. Instead it's more of a case of crossing through alleys and wandering along shady lanes, forever random, but then the passage of a story's timing /is/ often full of jumps. It allows time for a good conversation, anyways.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Her keys will be pocket into her jeans and when offers that arm of his, Mercy will set her hand into the crook of it. An old-fashioned gesture in this day and age, but she doesn't seem overtly surprised by his offer. Perhaps from living with a pack of wolves - there are many that are far older than her, some that are truly ancient. Many of these 'dated' gestures still reside within the confines of the pack.

While he happily blames Midgard for the lack of teleportation, Mercy will be the voice of reason (logic?) here, as she says with a grin, "Perhaps in time we'll have some sort of functioning teleportation device, but I have a sense it might take another ten years or so .. But if it comes about in my lifetime I will happily say energize anytime I need to be transported somewhere."

Let's see if he gets that very Midgardian televisions trope.

His real answer, on how he likes to move around in the most mundane sense, earns a second look of surprise from Mercy. "I can't quite see you on a bicycle, but I agree completely with walking. The world easily sets you up to go through it warp speed - it's always good to take a step back and breathe a little." Or run around four-footed for awhile. That always helps Mercy.

While the two traverse through the city, shady-side or not, Mercy will keep a curious eye about her. Even within those darken alleyways, she may become a little wary, a little more alert, but she's still interested in where the two are headed. While she could ask where the two are headed it's clear he wants it to be a surprise, or wants to keep his secret until the end, so, Mercy will simply ask, "What do you do during the day?" Her gaze will flick from the area around the two and back to Loki, as she adds with a tease, "Wait, don't tell me let me guess -". She makes a show of narrowing her eyes thoughtfully at the man, "- an auto insurance salesman. I've a sense you could convince even the most reluctant buyer to buy a full coverage plan."

Loki has posed:
"I just might forgive the insult against my good name," mutters the god, his eyes scanning over the changing array of the urban landscape. Where a guide in the Rocky Mountain wilderness might be looking for elusive wolves or friendly deer, pointing out the native Indian paintbrush or an invasive species, he is doing the same mentally with his surroundings.

"And then they turned, and behold, the blue Chevrolet monstrosity besieged by the shades of a dozen cacti..."

A Mexican cafe still clutching hold of Cinco de Mayo displays a certain vibrance, all the bright banners and bunting festooning its front in a very particular, stereotypical vein. There are sombreros and cacti, donkeys and women in big skirts cutout from filmy plastic. A party store just doubled its income. The truck itself is parked close to the cantina patio, a 1965 model, and the dancers seem to cavort with the cacti on its lustrous finish. "Pity we can't stop for margaritas, but if we hope to save that little kitsune, onward."

The next turn relies on her, but he won't say as much, her reactions directing the story in motion as much as anything. "Now, there is something to flight, I contend, and boats are perfectly fine. You aren't in a canal city, so they are far from essential. Pity. Imagine being a gondola mechanic." Those were the days, eh? "I do what is needful. Study. Deal with others. Antiquities, primarily."

The never-ending swish pulls them right into the depths of Long Island, though there isn't any sign they ever crossed the sound. It's not to the opulent North Shore they go, but one of the quieter villages in Suffolk County, where the Victorian houses on their pretty plots are a bit more dime a dozen. ;

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The little cafe is given a glance and the truck near it is given a longer look. Her gaze will automatically pick out what can be seen from the truck that might need repair, or just a nice buff and polish. When he speaks again her attention shifts back towards the lanky man, her walking companion, and while a question arises within her eyes at the mention of kitsune and saving, his other remarks are addressed first.

"A gondola mechanic." She begins with an echo of humor in her tone, "That would be interesting, unless of course you get sea sick." Or in this case 'canal-sick'. "Then you'd just be in trouble."

The topic of gondola mechanic isn't visited long, however, when Loki mentions his real day-to-day jobs-hobbies-responsibilities? Whatever the case may be, Mercy will ask, "Really? I would imagine antiquities is far more interesting than mechanic. I'd also imagine you find it pretty easy to spot the real from the fake -"

And just like that the two have traversed quite the distance and Mercy is once again looking about herself. "This looks to be a nice neighborhood -" She begins, an unvoiced question clearly coloring the tones of her voice, as she looks to Loki again.
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Loki has posed:
"Have you ever seen Venice? Nothing quite so perfect as a gondola there. Other than a scuba tank but the visibility in the lagoon historically is terrible." For your random fact and best Trivial Pursuit partner, there is Loki Odinson; also known as Liam and some last name that is probably a very good joke, like Lachlan. It would fit, all things considered. Name puns are his thing. "I like the idea of that pursuit."

As they wander, he waves his hand, and one yappy dog in a fenced in yard pauses, barking once in curiosity. "Oh. That would be true if I worked for Sotheby's or somewhere dull. Though the art market is lucrative; lots of fakes, lots of stolen things, antiques of questionable provenance. Do note I rather enjoy chasing down the fiends who destroy ruins for hot money, like Palmyra or such. But no, the ones I am after... more select. Much more difficult." Much more incredibly dangerous and not always on earth. "The last one tried to eat a few people's souls, and was set to overrun New York. That sort."

Theirs is a very residential street. A nice neighbourhood. Yes, it is, though the nature of places like this, the house on the hill with its clipped privet hedges and sorrowful, overgrown willow is //not//. It's practically storybook for problematic, right down to the for sale sign hammered into the ground near the front drive meeting the sidewalk.

"And that," he says from afar, where even the streetlights bend away from the place, "is our destination. I do hope you aren't one to take a fright?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
His question about visiting Venice earns a rather dry response, "I can't say I have." Amusement tinges her words, however, since she's quite aware how little she's truly travelled in her lifetime.

Sure she's been at various points within the United States, but rarely beyond it.

His explanation of just what type of art, or artifacts, he's after causes her to cock her head slightly to the side. The yappy dog is given a quick look, but when it turns curious versus noisy, Mercy's attention shifts away and back to Loki. "A dangerous job." Mercy says, a note of caution creeping into her voice now, at his remark about soul eating. "Like playing with fire." She ends with, even as she considers just what she said. While others might not say it, Mercy is nothing if not honest with her thoughts, her feelings, with how she thinks and so, she says, "I imagine that's what draws you to it?" She's also seen that spark of wildness held within Loki and while she knows to take all the myths surrounding him with a grain of salt, the various tales likely hold some mote of truth to them.

Thankfully they've arrived at their destination and because of that Mercy's gaze turns away from Loki and towards the house atop the hill. "I'd like to say I don't scare easily -". She begins, self-deprecating humor held within her tones now, "- So, I'm going to say no, but I will say this ... If we were watching a horror movie this would be about the time the spooky music would begin to play." And then just in case he doesn't watch too much tv, she continues with, "Which would tell us that a something bad is about to happen."

Not that it'll stop Mercy from going inside, but a note of wariness will enter her gaze, her body.

"But, in for a penny in for a pound. You said someone needed help?" Finally getting back to the previous comment about saving a kitsune.

Loki has posed:
"In part, I suppose. One must do something valid with his time. What else am I going to do, sit around knitting or punching a keyboard all day long?" Thor has people to do that for him because the delightful box talks to Bruce. Team Thor is rather behind the times. Loki, on the other hand, has been forced to adapt considerably by circumstance. Exile, for example.

He shrugs his shoulders and flashes another of those simple grins. It's bright and a touch manic, but not frightening so much as staring into the sun for an adventure. "I daresay what draws you to the idea of being a mechanic when your skills are so much greater. That's not to say a mechanic is without worth. But so much excitement in the world, how not to be drawn to all of it?" The frightening music would be creeping along with a disturbing testimony of what lies ahead.

It's beautiful and grim, that house, right down to its droopy gingerbread and the shutters. No cars lie in front of the house, and there is clearly some kind of realtors lock on the front. The bushes need trimming but the grass it mowed. No lights are on in the windows, but that basically means nothing. The man chuckles softly. "It is about to happen. Or it already has, and will happen again."

He gestures to the walkway. Ladies first. "I heard about a Japanese fox changer, or spirit actually, being snatched up from Queens. The last time this happened, the victim was last spotted around here. The place has something of a reputation on the wrong side of the community. One of those spots you can go for a fun party or.... Well, let's not say exactly what bad people get up to. It's a party house."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That simple grin of his is seen and also felt, allowing just the barest sizzles of danger along her coyote senses - animals, after all, instinctively know the dangers of looking into the sun. Thankfully, Mercy is still more human than animal, and so, she can only return his grin with one of her own. Not a matching one just an answering one.

"I've a feeling our definition of excitement is slightly different." And then there's Coyote - he'd likely never allow one of his children to live a dullard's life. Perhaps one day she'll realize that. "But, if I must be honest, I will say my curiosity does get the best of me at times. While I like the steadiness of steel and hammer, if I see something I can fix I won't just pass it by." Even if it's not mechanical in nature.

And now, her attention shifts fully onto the house. It is beautiful in it's own decrepit way, but when Loki confirms that someone is in danger, her expression turns concerned. Not for herself, or Loki, but for the lost Kitsune. If Mercy is anything it's a bleeding heart, both a boon, and a flaw within her character.

The manicured lawn and the overgrown bushes are noted by the coyote, and when Loki allows her to go first, she does so. She'll step onto the walkway and begin walking towards the front door. What magical senses she has available will be stretched outward, as she looks to sense anything around the house and the yard.

"How did you hear about this person? Or spirit?" She'll ask, as she moves closer to the house. Even her enhanced mundane senses are now employed as she stretches her hearing, her sight and smell outward for any hidden clues.

Loki has posed:
The house has a decidedly awry feeling. Something thick and heavy about it, wrapping sorrowful chains around the foundations. Even the dense bushes feel ponderous and droopy, having caught more than dust and flies over the years. Someone, probably a realtor, is maintaining the property. No overflowing newspaper or mailbox, though paper mail isn't very common anymore. There are even trash cans closed up in a little wood and stone corral in front of the detached garage, which similarly has a feel of weightiness and abandonment to it.

The cement drive is fairly clean. Up close the house has a very small patio of sorts, and not much in the way of flowers to worry about. Nice, easy maintenance, there. A few different scents stand out: Ash, cologne, bad body spray, soap, human, sweat, fear, fur, lime and rum from Loki himself. A few small animals, mostly squirrel. The older ones are fairly stale. No one has likely been by in the last day or so. Neither does the house have a 'housey' smell of occupation. It's strangely bland, almost sterile.

"I hear things. You may count on a few people about the city knowing who I am. Sometimes they brag, sometimes they share news. Rather through the standard lines," he adds, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders. He hasn't made a point of casting anything or summoning a dagger, so Loki must deem the threat level fairly low. "Though it never seems wise to walk up to an unknown place without warning. You have some talent for trouble. I thought you might like a look first."

No, Loki did not suggest she's bait. Mercy might be more refined. More like the weird detector. He can sweep her back and forth and dig when she beeps. "Yes, there's a history of people partying here. They don't return, sometimes. Like this possible time." He curses when his toe catches on nothing, probably a crack in the ground, and he slips. With a wrench of motion, his hand comes down to steady himself, but he is going to have shine that shoe again.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"A lot of scents here -" Mercy states, as she inhales through her nose again. "- Nothing crazy, but definitely people, animals, but nothing too recent."

His answer to her question earns a vague nod from the woman, as she still keeps her senses open to the world around her. She feels that weightiness around the two, but many older homes, buildings and churches have the feeling. As if the area around a person is alive, but not necessarily a sentience to it. It just allows Mercy to know that there's more to the area than the typical newly built pre-fabricated house. "THe house feels off, but like the smell, it's nothing crazy. Many old houses have a similar feel to them. History, whether good or bad, always leaves an imprint, or a past echo."

For now, that heaviness doesn't necessarily frighten her, but she is mindful of it.

His remark about her having a talent for finding trouble causes her to flash another grin at him. "I'm going to take that as a compliment."

When he slips, Mercy can't help the automatic response of reaching out to help steady him. Her grip is sure and strong, as she moves to help him straighten, even as she gives him the once over. "You okay?" Her brown eyes will drop towards that now blemished shoe and also the pavement.

Loki has posed:
A nice woman might be inclined to leave the place. Nothing about the property particularly screams a welcome, and the longer one resides around it, the more the inkling to be gone tends to build. Something is off, not quite lined up. It's the same impression an alley gives on a wet night, or a cliffside resort has for a Midwestereer. When you know it's not smart? You know.

Loki is categorically immune to such smart ideas as 'survive by not ducking under bridges' or 'avoid the rope bridge' or 'was it smart to harass the geyser?'

Mercy's senses will tell her the place is old, almost brooding. It feels sterilised and hollow in a way, though it has all the trademarks of a home, a place occupied by people. Somehow it feels more like a shell. The door is locked up solid in the front yard. In the back, it's almost a forlorn place of mowed lawn and no signs anyone ever bothers edging that way. That might imply everyone goes in, and doesn't bother going anywhere else. It's consistent with the story told. Otherwise there is nothing directly off. No peeling paint. No crooked cobwebs in the windows, no bent screens. For a party place, there isn't even a cigarette butt.

Maybe it feels more like a set than a real place.

And as that settles, so does a prickly wool blanket of bad luck. Remaining for long means acquiring more of the bad luck smut on herself, a bigger chance of things going wrong. Tripping, tearing a favourite pair of pants, skinning a knee. Forgetting the keys, and oh no, guess what, someone broke in. A faint fug on the air, a smell that isn't quite right, seeps around them.

The Asgardian attracts it in chunks, as it responds to the inherent magic. He slowly rises, and glares at the house. It doesn't like him any more than he likes it. "I'd say, if I must, it intends me ill. Keeping my distance may be slightly wiser."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy's eyes narrow as she examines the area this way and that. She's testing the edges, much like a coyote who approaches something much larger than itself. Something that it knows can cause it harm.

"Definitely odd." She mutters, more to herself than anyone. Still, they came here for a reason and Mercy will not leave without helping the supposed Kitsune trapped inside.

Still, Loki's words do bring a corresponding nod from Mercy. She's in agreement there. "I don't think it likes anyone right now." And no, she doesn't find it odd to talk about the house as if it was alive. "The edge of malevolence is definitely giving me the 'get out' vibe, but -" Because there has to be a but, yes, "- I'm not going to leave until we figure out if the Kitsune is trapped inside." So, whether Loki is the wise one here or not, seems moot as Mercy steps toward the little patio-front-porch. Once she's up the steps she'll reach for the locked door. There's a jiggle of the knob and then a quiet clank, as the doorknob cracks off. Holding the dully gleaming knob in her hand, Mercy will stare down it, "Way to go Mercy." Not that it'll keep them out for long, hopefully, after all Mercy could use her higher level of strength to force the door open, or there's a window.

Loki has posed:
It would help if there were any signs of occupation, any signs of recent visits. Alas, not much passes for busy from the mix of smells and the evident care taken to make the place look tolerable, and not likely to draw criticism overtly from the neighbours. Even if the house on the hill is separated from its neighbours and the trees are in dubious shape, the bushes overgrown, and the whole atmosphere around the place classically spooky and concerning. Unlikely the city planner will take much interest in 'a scary house' unless it weeps blood.

Loki hangs back slightly, carefully testing his balance. The skew of imbalanced luck curls around him, an unwanted, palpable presence like a stain from a sewer backup. It pools in certain places and sticks to the flesh and clothes like the walls of a proverbial basement. Prickly tickles of bad luck inch over Mercy, searching for the proverbial crack: the predisposition for a weak bone to break, the bad balance to be exploited, even an allergy being exacerbated because oh no, cedar. A wounded and aimless malevolence by itself isn't terribly problematic, but stay in the flow too long, it might start to be.

Kicking the door in, with its realtor lock in place, won't be terribly easy. But being strong and persistent eventually gives way with a lot of noise; there's no subtlety about throwing a body or a foot on a spinning kick into wood. And the metal frame is somewhat resilient. When it finally cracks open, it reveals a run of the mill spooky Victorian home with drop sheets on the few visible pieces of furniture. There aren't any posters on the wall, no artwork, nothing implying the owner was a collector or whatnot. Cat urine and fur make for a decided 'smell', and that dry stink of fear is more prevalent. The foyer is roughly rectangular and splits in two, a pair of french doors -- closed -- to either side. A stairwell leads up to the second floor, a door underneath it for Harry Potter to live in.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Again, in for a penny in for a pound.

Hopefully the neighbors won't realize just where the banging is coming from, or perhaps they just won't care. Or possibly they understand something is off about this house and won't want to check it out ...

... Whatever the case may be, when no one shows up angry shout-asking what they're doing she'll quickly finish forcing the door open. "I should really learn how to pick a lock." She mutters to herself, even as she uses her shoulder and foot to helpfully nudge the door open further. That broken doorknob will be set down upon the porch, to be dealt with later; though without tools how would she fix it? A problem to figure out, but later.

The prickliness of bad luck is felt and it's enough to cause Mercy to rub the goosebumps upon her arms. That doesn't stop her (because this is Mercy) and so she'll look over her shoulder at Loki, before she says, "Come on."

Yes, he has to come inside too, bad penny luck or not.

And with those words said Mercy will slip through the door. She'll get three to four steps inside before she allows herself to actually breathe. The crack of the door was enough to bring forth some of the scents that reside within the house and she knew it wouldn't be pretty for her sensitive nose. When she takes a sniff right inside that foyer it's enough to cause the coyote to lurch to a halt. One hand will go to her mouth and the other to her stomach. "Good god the stench." And while she's not typically the type to throw-up that strain of bad luck helpfully stirs up the contents of her stomach thanks to the pungent scents within the house.

Loki has posed:
"I might show you one of these days, provided you behave yourself, Miss Thompson." Loki's dry tone matches with the careful walk up to the patio. The concrete step shifts ominously under his weight, which must be odd, given that he isn't terribly different in size than most men. Oh, his brother, that's another matter, but he is well over six feet with a leaner than heavy build. And yet it detaches completely and forces him to leap up, catching his foot on the bending metal ledge of the door and forcing himself in. At least three splinters from the door jam into his hand, but fail to break the skin. Truly. Who is this odd man, other than what he claims to be, a god of the Norse Pantheon spread across the multi-verse?

The floor doesn't buckle under him but the laminate wood boards creak and crackle ominously. He frowns as one bows up under his foot, the end torn free. Truly, he could complain about density but chooses not to, facing down the other problems clearly drawn out. It's dark, the drawn shutters and blinds not helping. And given dusk is rushing in quickly, the ability to see in absolute darkness becomes a plus. White shapes emerge like gloomy barques, a procession of haunting shapes. He rakes his hand through his hair, black strands mussed completely in the front. It only adds to the ne'er-do-well air he cultivates without trying.

"Marvelous, isn't it? I had no idea a cat colony took up residence. That could explain people never coming back. Feral cats eat damn near anything," he idly notes. That might also include a coyote. Presumably. It might not include the man for which wood cannot bite into his skin, though pulling out the bits is especially a nuisance, and his nails are so nicely groomed today. He reaches into his coat and comes up with an actual handkerchief, white, trimmed in double green bars. It's offered. "The best I have at the moment. Will that do?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The commotion behind her causes Mercy to turn abruptly around. It's almost like a bad slow-motion movie, his foot gets caught, he leaps and (thankfully) he manages to stick his landing with only minor wounds. Mercy will open her mouth to say something, but then she just closes it. What can she say? She can feel the curse? Possibly that's what it is floating heavily within the air about the two. "I've a feeling our accidents aren't going to get any better." She states first, then, "Are you okay?"

It's clear he mostly is when he makes his way inside the foyer. When the floorboards beneath his feet creaks ominously, Mercy will take a few steps backwards. Perhaps if they distribute their weight more evenly they won't cause the floor to buckle?

It's a thought, or a hope, at the very least.

The proffered handkerchief will be given a grin of thanks, but ultimately she'll wave it off, as the coyote says, "Keep it. At the rate we're going we'll need it to bind one of our wounds. Probably yours. It does seem to dislike you more. Hungry feral cat colonies aside, do you think it's a curse?" She says, finally voicing that thought to Loki. "Perhaps it's what's causing all the disappearances in -"
- the house. That's what she was going to finish with, but her backward steps finally earns her own escalated bad luck. The heel of her boot catches a rusty nail from one of the floorboards and with an audible urk from Mercy, she goes down to the floor.

Loki has posed:
The curse has a presence like the insidious oily smell of something off, not strong but more persistent the longer one is around it. Rubbing fur wrong, as it happens, but a slow motion approach. Mercy is capable of detecting it at the periphery of her mind, playing around. Seeping out, or maybe seeping in, depending on perspective. It wants to find a way to make victims of them all.

The question raises Loki's brows. "Oh, it most definitely despises me. The house knows I want to tear it down. I don't think it's exactly //alive//. Some buildings are, genius loci, the Romans called them. This place seems angry enough to be on its way there, but no, the source is something else. I haven't quite discovered why." The casual shrug implies he is happy to dangle bait until the house reacts, and if that bait is Mercy, maybe it's a compliment! For himself, it might be a larger compliment, assuming she can take down whatever is lurking under a step and waiting to go after him like a particularly cunning shark. He tucks away his handkerchief. "My suspicion is the party house has an active element behind it."

He'd say more, but she falls and that requires a hand outstretched as a peace offering.

And then the hum of a motor and wheels bumping up over the curb, a vehicle bound up the drive in fairly slow speed. His gaze shifts to the door, then her. "I think our time is running out. Up, around, or out?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
His outstretched is gripped and with a faint grunt Mercy will pull herself up.

"Like churches. There's almost something living in the oldest ones. A welcoming presence to the people." She agrees, when he mentions genius loci, clearly knowing what he means. "But, I can say this place does not feel like a church." She adds, just to make that distinction clear. Very clear.

Once she's upon her feet she'll dust the seat of her pants off and then turn a wary eye upon the walls surrounding the two. That careful inspection of the wood and the items around them will pause at the sound of a car approaching. She'd swear, but this situation isn't quite up to swearing levels. Not for Mercy. It'll take something bigger for her to actually let slip a damn, or hell.

His question earns a faint stretching of senses from the coyote, as she considers which way to go. "Up is better, but down is probably where we need to be. I can sense something darker down there." Her eyes narrow as she tries to carefully poke her figurative-coyote senses downward for a better 'look' at what resides there. "We should go down." And she'll take a step further into the house, even as she splits her senses between the broodier aspects of the house and what she might also hear outside. She's trying to determine how many people are getting out of the car, if she can tell whether they're man or woman, etc. "Tell me you were good at playing hide-n-seek as a child." That question is only half-rhetorical and likewise only half-humorous.

Loki has posed:
Churches hold a particular appeal, true. He can nod to this, absently, and it may be concerning to imagine such a figure was worshipped, and still is, in is own way. "One day, I should show you Uppsala," he remarks, a dry timbre to the tone of voice. The doorway is open, there's no mistaking that, nor the broken block. As a matter of preference, Loki stays on his toes and steps uneasily along the groaning boards. Attempts to smother any noise of his passing just isn't going to work; even caution makes groans that tell everything.

Downstairs is a darkness that probably responds to the poke by stretching out gooey senses of bad luck and a feeling of... weight, more than anything. Pressure. Fear. Darkness tends to do this, after all. "I'm somewhat competent," he notes to her question, and there is a stillness resistant to even the noise further down. He ghosts to the wall, angling himself to where the front door is diagonal to him and offers a chance to see someone come in rather than blocking it up like a lout. "The only one who ever finds me cheats." Possibly having the soul gem welded into a person will do that. Or standing on the Bifrost with a big telescope, it's a job requirement.

The driver of the SUV counts as one, and there are four separate smells beyond that one. Two are dry and steely, another wet and sweaty, the fourth definitely furry with a tinge of old socks atop it. Like bad gym equipment.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The mention of Uppsala is shelved away for later; she knows where it is (Sweden), but now the thought of looking it up sits squarely in her mind.

When that tendril of darkness reaches out for her, Mercy will physically recoil. While it doesn't cause her to scream, or even shout out in fear, there's a definite edge to her expression; a 'don't touch me' look. Her steps were going to take her further into the house and towards the downstairs, but that touch makes her pause. "I'm revising my answer, let's go up." Comes her now whispered and hushed words, as she unconsciously rubs her arm against her side.

The groans and bemoans of the boards from Loki's movement causes Mercy to re-focus away from that bleakness. Realizing he's going to look to see who arrived, Mercy does likewise, but with her senses. Stretching both physical and metaphysical senses outward Mercy will try to parse who's outside. "Four -" She'll whisper to Loki, only hearing four sets of footsteps upon the driveway. She'll automatically inhale through her nose and while her nose is still somewhat overwhelmed by the stench, it still manages to catch a hint of new scents. A small breeze helpfully pushes the scents further inward towards the duo, which now allows Mercy to add, "Wait no there's five." She amends, as that faint edge of fresh fear and fur suddenly hits her nose. "Possibly animal." And with those words Mercy pauses, an idea popping in her head, "How small of an animal can you shift to? Perhaps it'll be safer if they found a small pack of 'stray' dogs here. Maybe they'll think some kids broke in and after they left, some dogs wandered in. Otherwise it's up. Definitely up. Only down if that's the way they go." Which with Loki and Mercy's luck is the way their going to go.

And while his mention of cheaters always winning is heard, it's not remarked upon. For Mercy the stakes have now risen to something higher than just a simple Scooby-Doo investigation.

Loki has posed:
"How small an animal do you need? Possibly any other requirements, like a left coiled snail? For what it's worth, they tend to breed right-coiled offspring, one of nature's odder mysteries." It stands to reason that the trickster god has absolutely no fear whatsoever when it comes to people wandering into the house. If they need further proof Fortuna is firing blanks for them, they get it in the hissed warning between the driver and the four other people fanning out. Two carry a very large hockey bag between them, just large enough to hold a stick and, thus, probably any sort of shifter up to a bear. A very small bear, in Loki's case. They must have spotted something inside, for the two with their target go edging away to put the bushes between themselves and possible people inside. Someone else has a gun, because they always have one, pulled from under their coat. A knife, too long to be friendly, ends up in the driver's hands, yanked from a sheath under a heavy coat.

"Dogs don't break down doors," Loki murmurs to Mercy. His eyes are squarely on the door. "You can try the stairs. It's less barricaded than below. We might wait them out and see what they do." Of course, that has a cost, and it's mostly human. Partly human. Decidedly wet urine. He gestures at her to take the stairs, a light flick of his wrist.

She'll have to hurry because nothing like pulling a gun and doing nothing with it. The passenger holding said firearm lines up to the open door and fires a shot indiscriminately, and then another. The driver nor the other two men with their burden protest at all.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Mercy's dark eyebrows will pinch together when Loki offers that fact about left and right-coiled snakes. "I'd typically find that fact interesting and would likely ask how you learned that, but -" There's more important matters to contend with. Especially as it doesn't take long for the scent of metal, gun-oil and the residual smells of previously fired shots to reach her nose. "Dammit, they have guns too. Would it be wrong of me to wish for a magical bear to fight again?"

His mention of the stairs and then that flick of his wrists earns a look from Mercy. "Wait, you're not coming too?" Begins that sharp whispered question, but she'll shake her head. Yes, she knows what he is, and yes, she still thinks of him in mere mortal terms. "Just be careful." She says and then she's off.

Her footsteps are far lighter and softer than Loki's, but between the foyer and the stairs some mote of bad luck reaches out and wraps around a slim ankle of hers and a corresponding *THUD* easily reverberates throughout the hallway.

"Dammit!" Comes the whispered curse again, but Mercy has made it to the steps, which is good as suddenly gunfire erupts.

Now the question remains should she pull her cellphone out and call the cops.

Loki has posed:
Not snakes, snails. There's even a left coiled snail looking for love somewhere out there, and that snail will not be favoured by Loki right now. Or Aphrodite. Who do snails worship? It isn't someone trying not to tear his sleeve on a nail, which happens, or run into a chair covered in a dust cloth that wasn't in his way before. A flare of irritation in Loki's eyes are enough to threaten he might just snap the stupid furnishing over his knee and break it. Especially since the unpleasant stink of gunpowder illustrates these aren't just garden variety traffickers or thugs or party people. "After you. Might lead them on a bit of a chase."

Pity he didn't get a good look at the kitsune, but that's neither here nor there. The driver and passenger are closing in on the door, coming from either side, another shot prepared to follow the thud of Mercy falling. Plaster crashes to the ground, a hole neatly plowed into the wall. It's for the better, because the man darts off to break through the French doors on the left and give them something much louder to follow. Especially when he flings the door a little too loudly open and glass shatters from the panes, tinkling down on the floor.

The hallway upstairs leads to a pretty standard second floor. The peaked roof of the old house has a visible slant to the ceiling. Two doors open on the left, three on the right, but one is so narrow it's probably a closet. The hallway dead ends and there is no sign of any furniture up here, either. A single window at least makes it easier to see, in the crepuscular light. Outside, the car's beams are still focused on the detached garage, giving at least something to follow.

Downstairs, the two men burst inside to enter. The other two carry their burden, who isn't especially loud or making a sound more than a weak snuffle.

Loki has posed:
It stands to reason the dark morass of unwelcome burden below is still palpable too.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
If she realizes Loki said snails it'd likely have made her expression even more curious.

Who knew snails coiled?

Surely not Mercy.

Up the stairs goes Mercy. Her footsteps are steady for that rush up the steps and when she gets the hallway the coyote will pause. Her hand will dig into the pocket of her jeans and from it she pulls out her phone. The face illuminates briefly when she touches the glass and with a look of relief at the sight of four bars, Mercy will thumb off the lock. Then she's dialing the three digit emergency number everyone knows -

- It rings, once, twice and then a third time before static fills the earpiece. "Are you serious." She whispers, even as her gaze turns back towards the stairs. She heard the crash and crackle of glass shattering and it's enough to cause her worry to ratchet upward. Her useless phone will be tucked back in her pocket and then the woman looks at those doors, before her gaze goes to the window. Quickly now her feet will carry her down the hallway and at the first door she'll move to open it for a quick look inside, to see if there's anything usable there.

But really it's the window that's her goal. If she can get through the window and drop to the ground perhaps she can circle back around and surprise everyone.

Loki has posed:
The first door opened reveals a blank room with nothing inside, stripped down to the baseboards and wainscot. The carpet is cheap and new, smelling of glue. The room has a light fixture and another window, but even the closet door is removed, altering any chance she might hide in there and pretend no armed men are coming. Three more doors of interest, one for a closet. The window up above is octagonal, inset with glass panes. It would be a tight fit for a teenager, less for a coyote, more for a thunder god. (Cursed be his name.) Given the window sits on the wall about six feet up or so, it's a climb or a jump to get up there and knock out the glass to shimmy down the back of the spooky house onto the untouched patio.

Downstairs, the noises are not encouraging: Thumping around. Broken glass. Squeaking boards. A brief muffled sound. Nothing that seems to imply things going well, and another door slunk open and down. The double set of matched footsteps grows considerably softer, and the house almost groans on its foundation.

Oh yes. It's waiting.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The newness of the carpeting isn't lost on Mercy nor is the fact that there's a window in the room. Though it's a touch high -

- She could likely jump to it, but would she be able to do it with one leap? Or would she have to waste precious seconds and try several times, possibly alerting those downstairs to her location, or the fact that there's a second person here. And let's not forget to mention the bad luck around this place. If she did succeed she'd probably slice herself on razor shards of glass when she'd punch or kick the window out.

Indecision causes her to stand there and dither for a moment as her gaze stays focused upon that window. Finally though, she'll offer a silent shake of her head and with the quickness of the coyote, Mercy will close the door and turn back to the hallway.

The other doors are given a speculative look, but the idea of checking all of them is soon quashed, as she hears the noises from below. Her expression turns worried, as she breathes out to herself, "You better be okay down there.", then she moves heading for the dead-end of the hallway and that window there.

The heightened sense of foreboding from the house is felt and it's enough that Mercy mutters, "House, I'm having a real hard time liking you right now. Shouldn't you be sheltering us, not helping to harm?" And while it's not always good to provoke that semi-sentience, Mercy can't quite help it.

Loki has posed:
The house isn't much prone to respond to the coyote. It //does// give another shudder, dark and cloying, and the lack of lights is all the more apparent when the doors are shut and the lonely little window at the top of the dead end hallway fails to offer much. A creak on the stairs makes a quiet sound. There is another of those uncomfortable creaks, as something parades his way up the stairs. Presumably he; nothing indicates she but Mercy herself.

Another shout is muffled, and then comes a keening shriek from very, very far away. Painfully so, a sound of animalistic fear and pain mingled together sharply.

The source might as well be on Crete.

Slow shudders run through the wooden frame. The darkness spins and boils somewhere underneath, and another creak follows a slamming door, and double-time stamping up stairs from somewhere. Well, whatever is in the basement just got introduced to something.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The dimness doesn't bother Mercy, her eyesight is keen, even in dark conditions. Along with that eyesight are her ears.

Those sensitive ears catch the creak of steps and it's heavy-footed too. She'll consider whether that might be Loki and with a shake of her head she decides it's not.

Her hurried steps are now a run. Not a bolt, that would be too wild, but she's definitely running now. Her own footsteps now echo a macabre sound of creaks, squeaks and groans. The sounds of the shrieking only hurry her steps onward and when she reaches the window she'll ignore the urge to look over her shoulder, to see what's coming up those steps. That's just wasted time now, isntead she reaches to jerk that window up, hoping the bad luck will stay away.

Even if the window doesn't open in the typical manner, she will open it, whether with hand or a well placed elbow smash against glass and wooden panes.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The dimness doesn't bother Mercy, her eyesight is keen, even in dark conditions. Along with that eyesight are her ears.

Those sensitive ears catch the creak of steps and it's heavy-footed too. She'll consider whether that might be Loki and with a shake of her head she decides it's not.

Her hurried steps are now a run. Not a bolt, that would be too wild, but she's definitely running now. Her own footsteps now echo a macabre sound of creaks, squeaks and groans. The sounds of the shrieking only hurry her steps onward and when she reaches the window she'll ignore the urge to look over her shoulder, to see what's coming up those steps. That's just wasted time now, instead she reaches to jerk that window up, hoping the bad luck will stay away.

Even if the window doesn't open in the typical manner, she will open it, whether with hand or a well placed elbow smash against glass and wooden panes.

Loki has posed:
Thug number two with the knife is coming up the stairs. No telling where one with the gun is, though the two friends present end up scattering for the door once their work is done. They make a quick retreat for the idling vehicle, ready to pull open the back door of the SUV on either side and pile in.

Driver and passenger, then, are on the prowl. There is no sign whatsoever of where 'Liam' is, though one might suggest he's not exactly the easiest person to squash. The groaning and creaking make enough noise to fill the lower floors with the ominous, haunting noises of a windy day. Obviously time and age are no friend to a building, but this is a bit beyond the pale. All she needs to do now is separate and... wait, Mercy has. Being pursued by a crazy man ready to attack her. And no telling what happened to the kitsune, except it probably isn't good.

The back luck makes for a hard landing, all said and done. The glass breaks; a few nasty gouges are the penalty for that. One from a piece of metal in the paned frame sticking out, which would most definitely hurt on the belly. While Mercy wriggles her way through, it's a tight fit, scratchy, bloody. Her excellent vantage reveals a drop below into an overgrown bush, so there's that, and a few prickly canes. Also, the two men running out of the building with no hockey bag.

Passenger #5, the unfortunate fox, is probably somewhere down below. Dun dun dun.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The sharp edges bite into her arms and hands and let's not even think about her stomach. Instead Mercy settles for landing upon the soft, albeit prickly bush below.

She doesn't yelp, or yell, instead she just grunts. Then she's fighting free of the clinging leaves and short branches. A reflexive look upward will have her looking at the now busted out window, where she most likely left quite a bit of DNA evidence. Oh well. What can be done?

Turning her attention away from the window, Mercy will look towards that idling SUV, but more importantly back at the house. Even if Liam wasn't still in the house (or so Mercy believes he is) the Kitsune is and that decides her steps. She'll toss one last look over her shoulder towards the SUV, to try and get a plate number, before she's back to the house. Her steps are quick again as she runs for the broken into front door. Should she shout for Liam? Possibly, but not quite yet.

Brash now with worry, Mercy bursts into the front room again. She has an inkling where the Kitsune is (and possibly Liam?), so she'll make her way towards the 'downstairs'. Hopefully it's not a mistake.

Hopefully the men upstairs will stay up there a few minutes longer so she can get to that basement safely. Well, arrive there safely. Who's to say it's safe /down/ there.

Dun dun dun, indeed.

Loki has posed:
The door gapes open, there's no doubt of that. The front door makes for an excellent spot for the goon with the gun to retreat through, barking over his shoulder, "Come on! Time's up!" It's the only time he has spoken and his accent, as it happens, is Portuguese, muddied by life in New York. The gentleman headed out the front door is timed to just about the point Mercy is headed in with the New York plates stuck in her head - BRV 5145.

No doubt //this// won't be good. The door to the understairs is open, for Harry to be stuck in, with his owl and his school work. Summer term at Hogwarts is out. Evil houses are in.

The sharp cry of surprise is enough to alert upstairs thug. Downstairs thug aims.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
She can remember that plate. She can.

She should have taken a picture of it. Dammit.

That thought drifts through her head for a second and then all thoughts are lost as she comes face to face (gun) with the leader. If she had a second she'd shout, 'house stop it!', but she doesn't. Instead all she can do is zag to the size as the thug takes aim and reach for one of the cloths that cover the furniture with. The white cloth will be snagged and then snapped towards the thug. It won't hurt him no, but hopefully it'll be enough of a distraction that she can then aim a kick at his leg, side, something, with those steel-toed boots of hers.

Even as she tries to attack that thug her gaze will be drawn to that little entranceway that leads downstairs.

That's where she needs to get to.

Though pity there won't be any train ride. More like a scary ride with whatever lurks below.

Loki has posed:
The kick may miss. The sheet isn't something he expects, though, and the armed thug shouts, waving the gun around, trying to get out of resembling a Halloween ghost from 1954. Banner year for spooks, really.

The door under the stairs is hard to pull open, like a massive amount of suction is holding it shut. It groans and creaks, the handle sticky on the jam. Eventually it pulls open, but precious seconds lost to a man ready to fire at will.

The peppering of a bullet smacks into the wall, possibly grazing her. Possibly throwing her forward if she ducks into the oozing darkness.

That's just one more person to make their escape from above, and Mr. Knife joins Mr. Bambam at the bottom of the stairs.

They make a calculated decision, hauling ass winning by 2-0 against 'engage the idiot woman who ran down the stairs.'

Immediately the temperature change towards the basement is palpable, and the oozing darkness practically slick on the walls and the stairs. Wooden ones, if she had to guess, covered in a fuzzy moss or fungi that makes the texture fuzzy and spongy. The cat urine smell -- and fear -- is almost overpowering.

An engine is gunned. In the cave dark down there, it's impossible to make out details or dimensions. Only a snivelling, weak whine remains as guidance. Above they're making a run for it, backing out the SUV.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The sound of gunfire makes her flinch as does the splinters that erupt around her head and face, but that doesn't stop her from pulling upon that door with all her might.

And while she has the odd thought of running away again, thankfully, that door opens. Surprise momentarily stutters across her features when the door opens, having not expected it to finally pull free. Combine that with the splintering gunfire, Mercy does indeed go down the steps quite forcefully. One might call it rolling down the steps in an undignified manner, but Mercy will call it simply getting down the stairs. Especially since she landed in a half-crouch. The one lick of good luck she's had in the last few minutes.

Above the running footsteps are heard and all Mercy can afford is a mutter, "Yes, come to my shop smelling like limes and rum .. " A few words are lost there, as she begins to creep toward the sounds she can hear, " ... and somehow we manage to end up in The House on Haunted Hill."

And as she follows that sniffling sound automatically Mercy will reach out to one of the walls, intending to use it as a guide of sorts, but when her palm comes in contact with the slickness, she immediately jerks it backwards.

"Liam!" She'll 'whisper-shout', "You better be down here!"

Loki has posed:
The stairs are not even and it's so easy to fall. They wind down and down and down, the walls narrow and concrete, but wet and still furry with the same unchecked mold. You know those times when the psyche shouts 'this is a terrible idea?'

"//That// is a terrible idea!" The shout from up above speaks to rough irritation and exasperation, more than anything. Masculine, and distant, Loki does have to project to be heard. Mostly, he is up there gripping the door and threatening to rip it off his hinges. Perhaps.

The whimpering noise has a decided wetness to it, fading out with another ripple of noise indicative of... ripping. Consuming. The bleat weakly peaks and vanishes. Just where it comes form in the cave dark is a bit disorienting, other than 'over there' in what could be a cellar, a natural foundation, or the entrance to Hell.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The shout from above causes her to pause. "WHAT?" Shouts Mercy, her voice echoing up those slick and slimy steps, "You're upstairs?" Comes her second shout, even as she turns her attention towards the whimpering sounds. "Don't come down!" Is her final shouted warning and then she's resolutely turning away from Loki and that potential freedom.

"Kitsune -" Begins the woman as she creeps a few more steps forward, "- are you here?" And then, just like that, the sound of devouring is heard. Mercy, who lived with a large pack of wolves, understands what that sound means. "No -"

They're likely too late and that's enough to cause Mercy's footsteps to stop. But, perhaps there's a chance and so, Mercy being Mercy, will shout towards that direction, "- Get away from her!"

Not the smartest move, but it's all Mercy has. With that shout the coyote will start backing up, intending to get closer to the steps again, whether to run, or to possibly slow the beast-thing-demon down is hard to save.

Loki has posed:
Yes, he's upstairs. Would that the trickster put himself in danger, the house might not be intact. His reputation precedes him. Let others do the dirty work, and he'll observe from the sidelines with a rum and coke. Or something suitably liquor-ridden for someone almost immune to problems with alcoholism or drunkenness. Mead, for that, Asgardian mead.

"Then //come up//!" he replies. For all the good it does him. One does not dangle coyote bait without understanding it will tie itself in knots, do a drunken dream dance, and somehow end up higher up than where it started. He stays where he is at the top of the stairs, crouched low, staring into the bleak darkness with a decided dislike curling his upper lip. It doesn't like him either. Not one bit. The heaving darkness glutted on the satiety of a meal lurches ominously in awareness derived not from a single source but a //will//, something awful and infused with rage at the intrusion it does not welcome. Bad enough she is here. Him? Well, that's less of a meal than it is willing to bite off, the infiltrating bad luck reaching for him in a wave.

Too late for Mercy to save the kitsune expiring under the tendrils of shadow and the malevolent maws stretching from each, but not too late for it to seek her. The pulsating night fashions a wave rolling for her, eagerly pursuing. How well does she remember the direction 'back?'

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Yes, I think that's a great idea." She'll call back to Loki, when his words echo in that weird way down the steps and around the bend to the area below. Her words might also take a higher note as that wave of bad-luck suddenly swells upward, towards the trickster god. "Careful!" Is what she'll call out lastly, as the wave washes over her; not necessarily looking for her.

Back is relative in this darkness and while she can't say a hundred percent she's on the right path, she'll go where she thinks she was.

Her senses will hopefully help her here too, as she searches for her own scent. It may be light and not something she typically 'looks' for, but it'll be the little bread-crumb trail that'll get her to safety. Hopefully. And just as she finds the first 'crumb' to lead her away that wave of bleakness moves. While the darkness down here is quite black and dank, that doesn't stop the coyote from 'figuratively' turning it's head, the hackles rising along its neck. That little instinct of warning is enough for Mercy to glance over her shoulder, which allows her to see /some type/ of movement, which then causes her to move.

There's a bounce off a wall (with slight oomph), before she forces herself to touch it. Using that as a guide the coyote will literally scramble away from that hungry wave and towards the step. Her foot is the first thing to find the staircase as she rams it right into the step. It's enough to cause her to half fall onto the mossy-covered thing.

While her body says 'wait rest a moment' her brain is simply saying 'nope!'. And so, quickly enough she gets up. Then it's going to be a scamper race to see who's faster.

Loki has posed:
A great idea includes: going into a spooky house, investigating while shot at, going underground into a deathly dark cellar. Chalk many good ideas up to acting out of the wellbeing of the injured or harmed. Can't be blamed. Might almost be counted upon, really.

The lack of scent in the cellar other than the sickly urine and fear built to a fever pitch might make it hard to pick out the way she was going, but at least Mercy likely knows her own smell enough to get back. At the top of the stairs, the narrow opening is a lighter shade of grey with a silhouette of Loki crouched down. The stairs are far more slippery than they were before as the place seems to recover its wits and decide no, this meal down here is great, let's eat that. Munch munch mossy. More of it reaches out, those mouths on mouths trying to catch hold of her if there's any way it can possibly manage. Anything to latch onto: shirt, pants, skin, the darkness hungers for that too.

No matter it means pushing the stairs up like a curved spine. Except one as soft and squishy as an oesophagus.

THe Asgardian lashes out with his fist, smacking at the wall. Stupid house. The vibration forces a bit of wood panelling to fall on him. The indignity!

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The indignity. Truly. Poor Loki. He's likely used to be in a better position of power in this mortal world.

Thankfully, Mercy is not, and so she has no idea the indignity. Instead she's just trying to survive at this point.

"Get ready to close the door!" She shouts, even as she uses both hands and feet to crawl-climb-scamper up those first few steps. It's only after those first few steps that Mercy begins to feel the pinch and pull of ... bites? Upon her hands? "What in the -" Starts the coyote, even as she pulls her hands away from the steps and the mossy mouths. When she does that the stinging sensation lessens and then it hits her; the moss. The moss is biting her. It's enough that the coyote will rise to a more two-footed stance and once again she moves. To help brace herself navigate the slippery steps Mercy will once again reach towards the walls around her; now the question remains, is it more moss? Or slime, and if it's slime one can only hope it won't try to absorb her fingers.

Her steel-toed boots hold up well against the little miniature mouths, but her the cuffs of her jeans are easy pickings, especially with the frays dangling from them. It's not stopping her, but it's definitely slowing her down.

Up, up, up, she goes. Not much more to go, she can see Loki's silhouette backlit thanks to the brightness behind him and the darkness around her.

Loki has posed:
Or perhaps, for reasons still, he chooses not to be /overly/ involved. He could be that kind of jerk! Loki is known for his magnamity to nearly nothing except magic and himself.

The woman rushing out is a sight, slimed and moss-bitten, freckles to worry about for later if her shirt was short-sleeved. He will worry about it later, preferably when they are NOT facing a death house of the proportions they see now. One that yearns to pull that coyote back down into its bowels next to the half-shredded, bitten body of a prostrate kitsune who won't be partying out in the Bowery any more. The railing is slurpy and thick, the walls deviously acidic with the excreted 'stuff' of whatever it's made of.

It just wants to melt her down to eat, no worries there. Her boots are more endurable than flesh or cotton or worse. Finally, the malevolence makes a noise a little too like gurgling, and throws a bolt of goo right at her back as she scrambles higher.

The Asgardian wedges himself in the frame and holds out a hand to her, as long as his arm will reach. And it might help to extend, say, a railing if he had one. But he doesn't.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
It hasn't even occurred to Mercy that Loki is purposely keeping himself removed from helping her more. In fact, she's shelved it to the whole bad luck thing. She saw how hesitant he was when they first approached the house and really, can you blame him? Next time she will definitely make sure their outing is for something far saner, safer, like dinner. Steaks would have been better, yes?

As for those walls the worry about being absorbed is forgotten as her fingertips being to tingle with the beginning of burns. "For the love of - I hate this house!"

Her hands will be yanked away from the walls and quickly wiped against her jeans. There's a good possibility that the outfit she wears tonight will soon be retired, into the garbage can. Still, it's stomp, stomp, stomp as she makes her way upward and when she sees that offered hand, she'll reach for it. Two more steps and there's a tentative touch of her fingertips upon his, but before she can get a secure grip that burbly-gurgly sound is heard. While she doesn't take the time to look over her shoulder to see what's going on, Mercy just knows it's not good. Just not good.

Instead of running up the last couple of steps Mercy will just throw herself up them. She's hoping the sharp movement will lurch her out of the of whatever's coming her way. It's a gamble, but it's all she can do to escape the oncoming goo.

And again, her poor clothes. Definitely not going to survive this adventure.

Loki has posed:
Steaks may be safe, but are they fun? Maybe if they come from an evil bull that was used to sow a Maasai field and has a taste for living flesh if not supplicated by butterflies, cassava, and sprinkles of chocolate or rainbow variety first. One has to think that bull has the right of it.

"Why it didn't sell, you figure?" snaps the man, his tone a bit brittle and icy, though not entirely directed at Mercy. Likely not. His eyes are more visible than the rest of him, peculiarly green as though defining the place on the spectrum for that singular shade. The luminous quality isn't at all natural, burning with the weird fire seen on ship's rigging in storms.

She breaches that distance, finally, though every step forward and back involves tiny tendrils trying to eat her boots. Leverage found with the purchase at the top of the stairs, her slip-slop steps throw her over the man who is relative to her not exactly tall. Not standing upright he isn't, and that could be horribly embarrassing if anyone stopped to think about it.

No one does, hopefully. You know, life and death and hungry houses.

Loki hauls her back by the wrist and stumbles with an awkward gait that doesn't leave him flat on his backside. A win, there. Less of a win for him to collide with the wall, pushing her hard back into the main foyer. The doorway glows with a certain brighter aspect when it's just the night sky and bushes out there. No sign of the SUV, that peeled away some minutes ago.

"Out!" he insists. Just in case it wasn't clear as he rises, slamming the spongy door shut. It's an odd shade of tongue brown-red.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Again, their definition of fun is different.

But really, Mercy isn't the sit on her hands type. Not when she can help, so, in the end perhaps their definition is not so different; just their reasoning behind it.

The bright green of his eyes is an odd comfort to Mercy when she sees it, allowing her to know for certain she's no longer alone, no matter the high color of them.

And then at his words, Mercy can't help but offer the faintest puffs of amusement at his mention of why the house failed to sell. That huff of amusement is there only a second before her half-crazed stair-crawl results in the two colliding. There is no thinking of just what hit where, not when the ooze is still after them, and so everyone's modesty is kept quite neatly.

When he slams into the wall, Mercy offers a soft grunt of sympathy, even as he pushes at her toward the foyer. Yes, she definitely has the same idea. His push allows her to scramble back into that first room and with a glance over her shoulder, she'll make sure Loki is behind her. Or at least not being devoured by the ooze. He's not, which is good. While he shuts the creepy tongue-colored door, Mercy will go for the broken front door, wrenching it open with a hard pull. Not that it really needed that hard pull, but there it is none-the-less.

Loki has posed:
Loki does not bother admiring the pile of cloth on the ground or the slimy effect ruining perfectly good clothing. Don't mechanics always deal with that? He wants the hell out of that place, and that means getting the more vulnerable mortal out before the door under the stairs turns into a pile of moldering goop. It just might, and there cannot be any certainty those ripples are anything but accidental.

Outside awaits them after just a few running steps. That might prove sufficient to regain breath, stumbling onto the grass and lying there flat. Or maybe they can run all the way to Harlem as fast as possible, chased by the demons of memory and distrust. Anything to get out of the way.

The sorcerer's teeth are gritted and on edge, and his shirt will need mending. Torn and dirty, the accursed thing. He might just pull it off, stamp on it, and have a temper tantrum that rips apart the building. And maybe not, given the grim look on his face.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Outside and while she would love to fall upon the grass, she doesn't.

Who's to say the grass won't try to eat you.

There might be a few nights of disturbed dreams from this particular house. Where spider plants and petunias see Mercy as their next meal.

For now, thankfully, all Mercy can do is stagger out the house, off the porch and onto the raggedly manicured lawn. Whirling around she'll make sure Loki is there with her, before her gaze turns back to the House. Capital H there. She'll stare at him for a long second before finding her voice. "You okay?"

They're both definitely a bit worse for wear, with Mercy holding quite the number of scraps and bruises, and burns. Damn burns. A step will be taken towards him to make sure he's okay, especially with that expression upon his face. "Are you hurt? Though I do think it's my turn to be wounded."

The last is said with an edge of humor, not hysterical humor, but black humor and hopefully something that might interject a little lightness - even if it is gallows humor.

Loki has posed:
Loki unclenches his fists and looks at the house with a thousand light year stare. It may be overkill, but entertaining all the ways he could disassemble it at the molecular level is comforting. Must take comfort in a pitiless mortal world, of course.

"No," he replies. The clothes are horrible, but the rest of him is annoyingly pristine. Hair still falls almost perfectly and there are no cuts or bruises to speak of. It's that dense frame of his that gives this advantage, but it could also be a sick sense of humour. "We are miserably corrupted right now. This unfortunately calls for a number of options, the best of which is transferring our bad luck to a scapegoat. Or we could pollute the Staten Island water system and hope a contained system will carry it away. I doubt so, though, or else rain would have ended its reign of terror." Oh Mr. Pun.

Assured Mercy has not been turned into an oozing pile of wounds and blood, he shakes his head again. Clearly he's quite well. "Now you accept it might be easier for me to teleport us away from here? I hesitate to burn this thing down. The being underneath might go free. It might die. I'm not convinced."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
It's like he's been covered in scotch-guard. Him, not his clothes.

Lucky him.

While he looks all pristine (beyond clothing) Mercy is definitely in need of some new clothes and a bath. Definitely a bath. Some band-aids too, but that thought is interrupted when Loki declares them tainted. She wasn't even thinking of that and the woman will turn her senses towards the two of them now. Looking to see if that bad luck penny stain is truly upon them -

- "We can't transfer this to someone else." She quickly says, even as she offers considers the water idea. His pun earns a crinkle at the corner of her mouth as well as eye, but it's clear she's still mulling over what to do.

"If you're not certain it'll die then no, we definitely cannot let that thing go." Her gaze automatically swings back to the house now, as she considers it, "Perhaps we can ward the door, so no one else can open it, and it can't get out. I don't know how to stop people from buying it, however."

Though perhaps the atmosphere within the house turns the most bravest of buyers away. Even a normal person would likely feel that oppressiveness within.

And while she didn't remark upon teleportation, she does now, as she ends with, "There are definitely some merits to teleportation."

Loki has posed:
"Well, we can, they may simply not enjoy the rest of the night terribly much. Anyone you've felt particularly gipped by? Karmic rebalancing act. Totally normal. Maybe there is a politician if you cannot think of anything else," he muses over this, leaving Mercy to decipher her preferences or leave it up to him. Leaving it up to him is a terrible idea. Or fantastic, depending on her view.

He shakes his head to her question. "I could bound it, but the realtor..." As if they're magical creatures. "Maybe we can simply burn it down. At dawn. Inquiries will need to be made."