There was a person in his rooms. A rather small person, at that. Lying on his (perfectly made) bed, in full clothing, at two in the morning, Skulduggery Pleasant was rather glad he left his door open to let in a draft.
Noiselessly, he got off the spring bed (not an easy task, as it was not a high-rate motel and the reason he was even here in the first place had checked in earlier…) and crept towards the door to the rest of the suite. Nothing but first class for the Skeleton, but now he was wondering if he should have just gotten a smaller room and avoided the thieves.
…Thief. Singular. And short too, with long hair and a rather skinny profile. The window was open and air was blowing in. The moonlight turned his hair pale, and skin paler.
His clothes were ragged, and mud-covered. However, inside all this interesting character-detail, Skulduggery was looking for something else.
That window had not been above any convenient ivy, and there was no ladder poking out over the lip. No rope was lying around, as if he had left it there. This person was interesting, and he should be kept away from the window.
Without further ado, he flung open the door and strode to the young man. He turned, shocked, and Skulduggery made out huge pale eyes before he caught the teen's wrist and lifted it too far for it to be comfortable to the thief.
He yelled, a surprisingly high-pitched yell, and his legs gave out. Skulduggery swore as he was pulled off-balance by the sudden shift, and then the thief attempted to kick him in the side, seeming shocked by the empty air there.
Maybe the fact that the victim of his theft was dead hadn't sunk in yet.
Leaping back to his feet, Skulduggery aimed a gust of wind at the window, where the thief was running. It slammed shut.
The teen squeaked, turned, and made for the door- and then, when it also was cut off, turned towards Skulduggery.
"Let me go!" He screamed.
Skulduggery pretended to consider, and then said randomly, "Your voice is rather girlish."
"…No shit, Sherlock." The thief looked suspicious, and then Skulduggery put the huge eyes and the shirt- now lying nearly flat against the almost prepubescent chest- together.
He flicked on the light. Yes, definitely a girl. Her hair was blond, and cut short enough to pass for a rather ragged boy. Her clothes were torn and he estimated that she clocked in at about 12 years old. And she carried a knife that he swore had not been there a moment ago.
"Well?" Roxy asked, looking expectant.
The Skeleton paused. "Well what?"
"What 'well what?' " She took a tiny step forward, glancing around the room for an exit. The door to his bedroom was open. Hmm, he should have closed that.
"...What?" If a skeleton could look confused, he did. Too bad Roxy Anne Wyatt had the upper hand.
She could think on the living dead later. When she wasn't possibly a dead girl walking.
"Well, come on and have a go- if you think you're hard enough." She grinned, her mind twisted, and she wasn't standing on the floor anymore, she was standing on what used to be the wall and was now the floor. The skeleton was sideways, poking out of the wall like an odd ornamental lamp, complete with fireball. The shift was difficult, especially since there was so much evidence to the contrary, but she managed the shift and her gravity was no longer directed in the same way as his.
She ran for her friggin' life, and what happened next she never really got clear on.
All she remembered was the sound of curses, a loud BANG!, and shattering glass. Then the cold in her lungs and the heat everywhere else, the worry that someone might see her thrown out of her mind.
It was a miracle she got home alive enough to fall into bed. Talk about low...
"How did it go bad?" He demanded, roughly pulling the shard out of her arm. Roxy cried out, biting back tears at the sudden sharpness, and then his rough cleaning. Allan John Wyatt was not very gentle when upset, but he knew better then to let the glass sit any longer. It was already starting to heal around the piece of window.
"I- I don't know!" She said, louder then intended because of the shit he poured over the freshly-bleeding hole.
"Start from the beginning, then!" Not patient, he wiped with a dishrag oh God that hurt...
"I-was-at-the-hotel-and-I-saw-him-go-in-and-he-ordered-the-suite-so-I-thought-he-would-be-just-a-rich-guy-who-liked-privacy-but-he-had-a-gun-and-I-don't-know-what-happened-and-then-I-was-here!" She was ashamed, she was crying from the pain, and her brother would not be very nice about this one. Her breathing was fast, short, and her eyes were red.
Allan felt something crumple. She was so scared... Whatever she saw must have frightened her. But what the hell was he supposed to do? Girls were like a seperate species, and worse, his little sister... was just that! What could he do?!
He panicked, and suddenly she was pulled into a tight hug, and Allan whispered into her ear, "Take it easy. I'll protect you, whatever happens, so rest. Remember, Rox-the-fox, you're my little sister. Nobody can touch you." He acted well while panicked.
Roxy sniffed, then frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?" She wiggled her way from his hold to stare at him. "No, seriously, where did that come from?"
He chuckled. "Honestly? No idea. I thought it would set the plot up right."
"...What?"
A/N: If you haven't guessed what this is by now, you're pathetic or I'm a bad writer. (So I prefer to think you're pathetic.)
This is basically Tanith's life story, from Toddle-times to the time that she joined up with the right side. There will be OCs. There will be many OCs. There will be bad words. There will be blood. And tears. And tragedy.
...Hey, I like to torture them! (Also, I think Allan's special power should be to break the fourth wall, but... nah. As funny as that would be, I think I should give him something more useful. Suggestions are useful but can be ignored, at my discretion.)
OH GOD THAT LAST PART WAS RUSHED.
-ThreeBooks