All it took to find the IDIOT from the fumblr place was to put two and two together that Emmett liked him (a stroke of genius on their part, natural genius), huff her welcome mat for 2 hours in order to distinguish and memorize the aromatic signatures of whoever she had coming over these days, and then puzzle out which ones weren’t familiar. Nic would have to admit that it wasn’t a flawless plan, not quite, but NOT their fault. The UPS man did NOT like having his truck boarded as if it were a ship being pirated, and he liked having his tires gnawed off even less, but someone would probably come along and wipe him anyway, so who cared.
The next most promising scent wound into Maroa proper so they had to be two-legged to hunt it down. Miserable. Pathetic. Rain kept dripping off roof awnings into their hair and RUINING it with the smell and taste of asphalt. By the time they’d clambered up Isfet’s fire escape and clapped their horrid eyes on him through the pristine glass sliding door of his balcony, well, they were in a foul foul humor.
It would be less troublesome to open the door with disgusting human hands and come in that way. But it would also be not fun.
So it was that the skull-like, bear-sized head of the last Jersey Devil on Earth came crashing directly through the plate glass door of Isfet’s apartment, already gibbering and clacking like a medieval demon.
“CAME OVER TO YOUR **FUCKING** HOUSE,” Nic shrieked, wings scrabbling against the now empty door frame.
To say that Isfet shrieked was not a flattering way to describe things, but it was accurate. Hoarse, sure, but still undeniably a shriek. Followed by: “WHAT THE FUCK–!!” (more a declaration than a question) and a half-coordinated scramble off the couch. The other half, the non-coordinated part, sent him elbow-first to the hardwood floor. The hardwood floors were so, so nice, and so, so hard, and boy if there wasn’t some sort of horrible freak monster in his goddamn fucking apartment FUCK then he’d be a little more focused on smashing into his funny bone.
But there was, so he wasn’t, and really all there was to do was to launch himself toward the kitchen (never mind that he had to skirt dangerously close to The Big Horrible Thing) because that was where The Knives were.
“GET THE FUCK–” He smacked into the counter and tried to remember which drawer had the knives because, as it turned out, when you don’t cook you don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing.
