a thousand. ten thousand. violence. murder.

witch

Girl stands outside building. Building is brick. Alleyway near, but not near enough to make her flinch. Dark right now, but it gets dark early these days. Girl is something of a woman, but one of those faces. Freckles make her young. Youth makes her young. It's growing colder every night, the early nights leeching the warmth from the roads, the brick, the skin, the bones.

Inside the building it's noisy and where it isn't pitch-dark it is too bright, the colors too sharp. Just bright enough, just sharp enough. The colors bleed together and that's when you know it's good. 'It': whatever you're drinking, or smoking, or swallowing. Whatever you're listening to, whatever you're doing there alone or with someone. That's how you know, though: the colors bleed, and you feel like you're bleeding without a wound. That's how you know it's good. That's what makes it good.

Leather keeps her warm. Cigarette she's lighting keeps her warm. There's dark color on her fingernails and it's chipping; there's dark makeup on and around her eyes and it's only a little smudged. Her hair is thick and dark and teasing made it thicker and the night makes it darker. There's a click as the lighter's flame is cut off. There's the sound of her breathing, hissing, ambient, drawing inward.

The road smells and the alleyway smells but not as bad as it might in summer. The air smells faintly of snow that hasn't fallen and might not, because this place is a trickster. The cigarette smells of smoke and tobacco and poison. The leather has a smell and so does whatever she used on her hair and so does whatever she has on her lips but none of those things are her smell.

A sense of spirit hovers above her skin, like the thundering hooves of a stag, like the rushing of water or the beating of drums that go faster than even a racing heartbeat. But even that sensation and the ghosts of her ancestors are not her smell. Girl smells of cigarette and leather and hair product and lip gloss. Girl feels like Fianna. Girl smells like nothing at all.

Woman must not be a woman at all. Must be something else.

wolfman

Not the best part of town, is it? Alleyways and brick. Noise, drinking, smoking. Swallowing. The neighbors don't even bother to call the cops around here. If they come they come late, and sometimes they're the root of all troubles to begin with.

A limousine passes. Limousine in the broader, older sense of the word: not a stretch, just a luxurious sedan. Driver in the front seat; two white gloves. Back seat is invisible, windows as glossy as the paintjob. Not the sort of car you find around this part of town, but there it is all the same, sliding past like a shark through the shallows.

At the corner it stops. The hazard lights don't even bother to blink. It idles for a while; then the back door opens. That's unexpected. If someone was coming out of that ride, you'd think the driver would open the door.

Someone does come out of the ride. His suit is beautifully tailored, his haircut cost a thousand dollars, cufflinks flash at his wrist. But there's something coarse and rough about his stride; the crack of his neck as he seeks comfort in his own skin. He looks up the street first, then shuts the door behind him and comes alone down the other way toward the girl. With the freckles. And the cigarette.

He has no freckles. He has no cigarette. He has a strong, well-made face; a few centuries ago the plainfolk would have known at a glance that he has the blood of kings. Even today the girl knows: he has the blood of wolves. It comes off him in waves, like heat, like musk.

He comes close, stands an armsreach away, intangibly powerful in his frame, and yet uneasy to stand here. Before her. Doing this. A thumb nudges at an itch at his midriff, and then he drops his hand and nods at her, suddenly decisive.

"How much?"

witch

She notices the car and she notices the gloves. Notices the dark windows and watches. She stares, because sometimes people -- and things -- don't like to be stared at. Or because she doesn't realize she's staring. Or because she wants to. Stares. Smokes.

Something gets out of the stopped car and she keeps smoking. There's a subtle straightening to her spine, a shift of weight. She looks at him like she doesn't know a god damn thing about him other than the fact that he's there, isn't he?

He uses two words.

She quirks an eyebrow.

wolfman

Every second ticking by is a turn of the invisible screw. Impassivity becomes a thin mask -- implacability beneath. Abruptly, something snaps. He turns sharply and begins to walk away, gets two steps, stops.

A tightness in one cheek, like a grimace trying to make itself known. The bullish shoulders hunched beneath the impeccable jacket, crisp shirt. Fists curled big and brutal as flat irons -- anvils.

"Whatever it is, I can afford it." Impatience there. Defensiveness too? Perhaps she can't tell, can't read that far down. "A thousand? Ten thousand? Protection from your own tribe maybe. What's your price?"

witch

Now it's both eyebrows. Her chin is lowered a touch, her expression openly saying seriously? She holds the cigarette off to the side, her inner wrist upward and bared as the cuff of her jacket moves away. Under a streetlight the veins there are vivid and saturated, the thin skin around them translucent in a way they would not normally be.

He comes back. And she just stares at him, both annoyed and lost. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

wolfman

Dark eyebrows slamming together like doors. Suddenly the penny drops.

"Beg your pardon, miss." He speaks low -- a tense, terse rush. "I made a mistake." A short, short hesitation. Then a nod. Again he turns, walks swiftly away.