townhouse.

wolfman

"Good." Somehow he'd expected her to fight. Pleasant surprise when she doesn't. Weird too, though. He sniffs, stops thinking about it. Rolls his discarded jacket up into a ball and stuffs it between his head and the side-beam. "Wake me up when we get there."

His driver starts driving. Wolf is out cold in about ten seconds, arms folded across a chest moving slow and even.

--

Doesn't take them too long to get where they're going. His place in town turns out to be exactly that: a townhouse in a predictably swanky part of the city. A treelined street with custom cobblestone paving. A stone facade. Big windows. A garage. Neighbors that know how to keep to themselves.

Car pulls into the carport. Door closes behind them. The wolf awakens, quickly and completely, inhaling as he lifts his head. Driver comes around to open the door for the girl while the wolf opens his own door, forgetting his seatbelt. Gets yanked to a rough stop as he tries to get out. Curses, unsnaps it, whips it against the wall and gets out once and for all.

Door into the house opens. That thinlipped manservant from the auction is standing there, lips thinner than ever. The wolf glowers at him. "Don't even start," he warns. "Just find me some towels and bandages. And get her a change of clothes."

witch

She is quiet for the ride. Taciturn on a good day, she's dead silent now. She doesn't agree to wake him up, but she tips her head against the glass on her side, welcoming the cool of it. She would clean her face, but she's worn thin. The driver will wake him up.

She does not fall asleep.

--

When the door closes behind them and they are momentarily swathed in darkness, she breathes inward. She lifts her head from the glass, which has a bloody spot on it now as well, and then that door is being opened for her. She has a grip on her side, and a grip on her bag from Herbs & Arts.

During the ride, she has been cataloging the typical kitchen and her purchases. She isn't worried about the wormwood; that's not what it was for. But she can't afford to replace that bottle right now, and -- she's irritated, thinking about it, trying to refocus.

When he curses, his breath sharp, she turns suddenly to look at him, watching as he finally gets out of the car. Noting, again, the rough shape he's in.

She looks away again. They go inside.

--

This time she comes in behind him, peering out from his side at the manservant who isn't supposed to start. She glances at her host, then the manservant, and then bends a bit, setting down her bag -- or setting it on a shelf or table or sideboard nearby -- and shedding her jacket.

Her top is a large white t-shirt. Sid and Nancy stare at the camera in black and white, screenprinted onto this young woman's wardrobe. It has no sleeves. Rather: it has no sides, cut down til she is exposed from arms to hips. Her bra is black, the bands sheer even if the barely-seen cups are not. There are three gashes on her right side, smeared with blood from where her hand has been gripping it all this time. Her hair is still in braids, her jeans are still torn up and down, her sneakers are still the once-bright but now-dingy blue they were when he first ran into her at the witchy shop.

She drops the jacket on the ground. And picks up her bag. And tells the manservant:

"I need to use your kitchen."

wolfman

Even entering through the garage, the townhouse is impressive. Nine foot ceilings, vast windows polished until they're all but invisible. Plenty of granite and warm, light woods in the decor. Modern appliances. Accent walls. Potted plants here and there giving a splash of life to the space. Not much in the way of personal effects, and somehow one has trouble imagining this particular wolf sitting down and picking out most of this -- any of this -- himself.

Hardly even glances at his surroundings as he moves ahead of her. They pass a laundry room, a bathroom. The open-plan kitchen, dining, and living areas ahead; a flight of stairs -- light, airy -- spiraling up to a second floor. The wolf takes them in heavy strides, two at a time, bleeding through his rumpled t-shirt as he goes. Behind him, the girl asks to use the kitchen.

"Take a goddamn shower first." He's already most of the way to the second story. "You can use the spare bedroom. James'll show you where it is. Won't you, James?"

James -- the manservant, one assumes -- is taut with barely-hidden disapproval. He bows toward his master's retreating back. "Of course, sir. Ma'am, if you would?"

witch

He's still moving. She's looking at James-the-manservant.

"Kitchen," she tells him. "Then shower."

A pause. "Please."

wolfman

The manservant averts his eyes.

From above: "Fine. Whatever." And a door slams.

James makes a small gesture: indicates the kitchen is hers.

witch

No one stops her. Or shows her to the kitchen. But there she goes. And washes her hands first, at least, scrubbing them up the wrists until they're clean. Then she bangs around for a bit: she pulls open drawers and opens cabinets and does not ask for help. Things move quickly: she wants to shower, wants to clean up, wants to get this started as soon as she can.

Yarrow from her bag goes into a jar, covered in olive oil. She closes it, shaking it with one hand as she finds a saucepan and puts it in the sink, filling it halfway with tap water. She is flipping through a book in her head, flipping through his kitchen. The sage is not clary or white; she will make do. She adds it to the olive oil and yarrow, shakes it again.

The stove -- some massive, expensive, seldom-used thing -- is turned on, the burner high to get the water boiling. The jar now on the counter, she pours a handful of sea salt from his cupboards into the water. Unlike popular wisdom, she stares at the water as it boils, until it boils. As the water reaches a rolling boil she pours the oil infusion, which is far too quickly done, through a strainer. Adds the yarrow leaves and sage to the boiling water and stirs clockwise.

The last thing to go in is the St. John's Wort. She uses very little, sprinkling it over the top and then stirring again. Gradually she lowers the heat down to a simmer, puts the lid on the pot, and then walks away. She doesn't go for her jacket. She even leaves her bag -- herbs and oils and all -- on the counter where they lay. Goes back to James the manservant.

"Shower?"

witch

[-1WP

intelligence (lateral thinker) + occult (witchcraft)]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 2, 6, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )

wolfman

Takes time, even on an expensive, massive, seldom-used stove, for water to boil. In that time the shower upstairs goes on. By the time the girl leaves her concoction to simmer, it's off again. Bedroom door upstairs stays closed, though.

James disappears for a while, returns with towels and a change of clothes. Men's clothes. A t-shirt not her size. Drawstring sweatpants entirely too large. When she is finished, he hands them to her.

She is led upstairs and shown to the second bedroom, which isn't so much a guest room as it is simply an empty, minimally furnished room separated from the master suite by a hallway overlooking the living room. There is a bed in there. There is a nightstand, an empty closet, an empty dresser. A bathroom with some errant toiletries. The shower is spacious, though, and the water is hot.

witch

So she stands, waiting in some anteroom, some empty space that is neither this nor that, because it is an open plan. She takes a moment to look down at her side, pulling aside the emptiness of her t-shirt to look at it. She hasn't moved when James comes back. Takes the clothes and, without thanking him, without saying anything, she follows upstairs.

The door closes behind James, and she avoids looking at herself in the mirror. She strips.

--

Across a hall, you can still hear the shower turning on. How she stays in there perhaps a bit longer than he did. Washes until the water is clear. That takes time. Presses washcloths to her brow and side to catch droplets of blood from freshly cleaned wounds before doing anything else. Looks at her brow in the mirror, finally.

If she went to a hospital they would give her stitches. It will scar. She's less worried about the one on her side. It would probably also get stitches. Will also scar. But it, at the moment, doesn't make her feel weak to look at. Everything feels weak at the moment, though. Everything feels exhausted, though she knows deep down she still has reserves to go on.

The bathroom door gets opened to let steam out. She dries herself slowly, carefully, and bandages herself with gauze pads and adhesive tape as best she can. She knows enough about first aid to do this much. She realizes how badly she's shaking and how dizzy she is and cups cold tap water from in her hand to drink, drinking until the acuteness of the dehydration starts to taper off.

Eventually she faces the clothes. Looks at them, for a while, before doing anything else.

--

Later on she leaves the bedroom. She wears an overlarge t-shirt now, masked by the remnants of someone else's scent. She wears the drawstring sweatpants, the waistband rolled over and the string cinched tight on her narrow waist. The ends are rolled up around her calves. Her hair is not quite dry yet but isn't soaked anymore, lies in damp waves and curls. Her forehead is bandaged, as best she could. Her feet, bare, are nearly silent on the flooring as she starts to head down the staircase again.

wolfman

They've traded places. Wolf's down in the kitchen when she gets out, wearing what looks like the twin brother to her borrowed pants. Fits him, though, drawstring knotted low on his hips. Bandages take the place of a shirt: wrapped around and around battered ribs, clawed back, mauled arm. There's even a square of gauze taped to his chewed face.

He's standing over her bizarre brew, lifting the lid on the pot, sniffing. James is nowhere to be seen. Driver too. The wolf hears her coming, puts the lid back on the pot.

"What the fuck are you cooking?" Hair's still wet. Drips onto the edge of the gauze on his face. Blood seeps through from beneath; red turning a pretty pink at the edges. He wipes his hands on a towel, eyeing her. "Something like that thing you threw in the alley?"

witch

She looks at him for a while, paused at the foot of the stairs for a moment. She can smell the steam released by the open lid, the scent of something familiar to her, even if it is missing a few choicer ingredients. She doesn't start walking further in until he turns and looks at her.

"A salve," she says.

Was it like what she threw in the alley.

Something flares in her eyes then, quickly dampened.

"That was wormwood," she says. "And no. Not really." A pause. "Sort of."

witch

[manipulation + subterfuge: nothing to see here]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

wolfman

[HMMMM?]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (4, 5) ( fail )

wolfman

A lot of space between the stairs and the kitchen. Modern architecture, particularly modern luxury architecture, is all about open environments. Bright lighting. Airy, unconstricted spaces.

Funny how rage changes that, though. Funny how an uncaged animal makes any space seem too small. The wolf in his den: fifteen feet away, and he feels a lot closer. He watches her for a while, heavy brow knit, something not quite convinced in his eyes. He can't see it, though. Whatever it is she's not letting him see. After a while he shrugs, his bare shoulders all cords of muscle.

Fridge is a huge three-door affair, freezer compartment on the bottom. He pulls it open and gets leftovers out: a carafe of orange juice, a big slab of meatloaf. Real high-class stuff, that. "What was that in the alley, anyway?" Two plates. Two forks. Guess he has enough in the way of manners to feed her. "Some wolf make you a fancy talen, in case you got in trouble?"

witch

She inhales.

Holds a moment.

Exhales something like a sigh, and moments later is coming near her. He can sense her breeding as clearly as he can smell his own scent on her, like a sheer veil laid over --

nothing, beneath.

--

Her hair smells of some guest bathroom toiletry and her arms and legs smell of whatever his servants wash his clothes in. Her blood smells like blood. Like any blood: coppery, warm. But nothing else to identify it. He could close his eyes and stop his ears and there would be nothing to signify her presence but the flashing of stag's hooves in the back of his mind, the murmurs one only hears on a moor and only at night, the remnant sensation on the back of your neck that fairies have walked somewhere before you, or around you.

Yet with eyes open, she is there, and looks and sounds as positively real as anything else.

--

She is walking closer, seeking water. She found the glasses earlier so she gets one out; she doesn't want juice but she fills that glass with cold tap water and starts to drink. Looks over, thinking to ask if there is something to eat, but: two plates, two forks. So she doesn't ask. She drinks, and refills, and drinks again.

"It was just wormwood oil," she says again, sighing it a little. "Artemisia absinthium. Oil and glass in the eyes will distract just about anything."

wolfman

Noncommittal sound. Silverware clinks on plates; he puts enormous portions on each plate. "Get that for me." He means the microwave. He means for her to open the door, because he has one plate in each hand. She does or she doesn't; one way or another he gets the plates in there. Both of them, jammed in together. Microwave's big but not that big. There'll surely be cold spots in their food.

He hits the Reheat button. Microwave hums to life. Wolf pours orange juice into a tall glass, puts the carafe back in the fridge, shuts the door.

"Smart," he adds. Meaning oil and glass. Meaning distractions. "Made my job easier." Pause. "Thanks."

witch

For a moment she has no idea what he's talking about when he says 'get that'. She frowns at him, half a second, then turns and pushes the button, popping open the door. Steps out of the way. She drinks more water, says nothing.

But smart, he says, and she flicks her eyes his way, still sipping. She lowers the glass, empty again, and starts to refill it once more.

"I'm very smart," she says back, without preening. "And I am also not dead."

The water at the tap turns off. She takes a drink, and has not looked at him.

"Thanks."

wolfman

Something about her gratitude -- grudging as it is -- makes him uncomfortable. Turns his eyes from her, sets his arms across his chest, his shoulders pulling up in a vague shrug.

"Wouldn't have been in that alley if you weren't on that bus. Wouldn't have been on that bus if I hadn't sent you packing." His gaze returns to her, troubled, unflinching. "You don't owe me any thanks."

witch

Might have been, she could tell him. Might have been in the alley anyway.

I walked away, she could also tell him, or: I wouldn't have fucking stayed even if you hadn't told me to fuck off, because you're a gigantic prick.

And all these things are true. She looks at him sidelong as he looks away, as he shrugs. Her eyes flick down past his jawline for a moment, then up again. She looks away again, a moment before he turns back.

"For the talen, then," she says.

"Or the meatloaf."

wolfman

His lips flicker; a flash of a wry grin, there and then gone. "What, you have to thank me for something? Fine. For the talen, then."

Microwave beeps. He straightens, heads over to punch the door open and take out the plates. Some parts of the meatloaf are sizzling hot, almost burnt. Others, stone cold. He hands her one of the plates anyway.

witch

"I thanked you for three things," she says. "You can accept or dismiss any of them that you like."

One of her shoulders moves, under his shirt, in a shrug. The movement of the cotton draws attention to the way it sits on her. Her breasts are not bee-stings, and they are evident against the cotton. She takes the plate, though it is as hot as any part of the meatloaf, and then looks for, finds, a table. Or a stool up against the kitchen island. Something. Somewhere, close by, to sit.

Goes there and sits, sighing as she does.

Pushes the tines of her fork into her meatloaf. His meatloaf, given to her. Her empty stomach both wants and fears food; she decides to eat slowly even though she's ravenous.

"My name is Devon," she says, after a couple of these slow bites. Looks over at him.

"What's yours?"

wolfman

There's both. A breakfast bar with stools. A table with chairs. Two stools. Two chairs. And that's probably only because one and one would look too pitiful. Doesn't seem to be a fan of dinner parties, the wolf.

She sits where she chooses. Close by. Maybe he notices that. She doesn't like him but she sticks close. Maybe he notices the way his shirt hangs on her too. Too large, too loose. Hinting without revealing.

Wolf doesn't sit. He stands behind the kitchen counter, on the inside of the breakfast bar. He eats like that, standing up, one elbow folded along the edge of the counter. Thick shoulder pushed up, head down, beastlike. Glances up when she gives him her name.

"Rafaël." Might've told her his friends call him Raff or Rafe or something, except he has no friends.

witch

Not beside each other, then, but across. She takes his name as he gives it.

Then the corner of her mouth quirks, a wry little almost smile of amusement. She drops her head over her plate, hair falling to one side as it dries still. Takes a bite of her meatloaf.

wolfman

Walks a strange tightrope between swagger and suspicion, the wolf. Immediately his eyes light upon the little smile, which he doesn't understand. "What?" he demands.

witch

Not showing her face. Not to him. His plates see her face, her smile. The way it splits into a lopsided grin, half-hidden. Then her head comes up. That thick bandage at her hairline, where cleanliness shows now that some of her hair was chopped short at awkward spots from the clawing that nearly scalped her entirely. There's a spot or two of blood seeped through.

"It's the archangel of healing. And keeping travelers safe."

She digs her fork into her food once more, lowers her eyes to her food to focus on that. "Also bound Azazel in the desert." Her bite is ready; she pauses before eating. "Just. An auspicious name."

And one that would be ironic, if he had not healed her.

To keep her safe. While she was traveling.

wolfman

A frown and a snort meets her. He goes back to his meal, weight settling.

"Just a name my mother liked. What my dad said anyway." Could be more to the story. His eyebrows draw together, though, and down. He stabs at his meatloaf. "Not sure how much healing, keeping safe and binding I do."

witch

His mother liked the name. He only knows this by what his father told him.

Devon doesn't ask. She does watch him for a moment, not smiling now. They don't feel like soft fades, when her smiles are there or gone. Sometimes a grin grows; more often something is there and then it has disappeared. It is like seeing some fey thing out of the corner of one's eye; you begin to doubt it was ever anything more than your imagination.

She shrugs. "You did tonight. Despite yourself."

Stabs, too.

wolfman

Laugh sounds more like a grunt. "Yeah. Guess I did. Lucky you."

Wolf sinks into silence then, unless otherwise disturbed. He eats his meal quickly, savagely, messily. Bits of meatloaf end up on his bandages. On the counter. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand when he's done, straightening up, dumping the plate and fork into the sink with a clatter.

"You staying here tonight?" Eyes direct over the counter. Something he does a lot: defeats discomfort by staring it in the face. Literally.

witch

Silence reigns.

They eat. She eats with efficiency and care and most of what he gave her, though not all. She drinks more water. She is not gross. He is gross. The way he eats is gross, and so she doesn't look much at him. Even though he eats more, he's done before she is.

When he speaks, she looks up, and finds him looking at her. Her eyes meet his for a moment, then flick past his arm at the stove, the simmering pot, the steam escaping through a hole in the lid as the concoction boils down.

Her eyes come back. She doesn't fake politesse or demurity. Doesn't make pretense of oh well maybe I don' t know if it's okay with you. Certainly does not play coy or shy: well if you WANT me to...

She looks him in the eye. Gives a nod. "Yeah."

wolfman

So they nod at each other. Eyes locked. Very direct. Very grim, at least on the wolf's end. "Okay."

He glances down. Pops the faucet on, runs water over the plate, gets the gunk off and leaves it soaking. Seems about to leave it for a minute; then grabs a dish sponge and scrubs off his dinnerware. Stacks them by the side of the sink to dry.

"You can stay as long as you need to," brusque; punctuated by a flash of his eyes her way. "I got plenty of room. I'm not here much." Pause. He thinks a while. Nods, as though confirming something with himself. "I'm going to bed."

witch

Devon isn't grim. She can be. Sometimes. Isn't, now.

She watches him, finishing her meatloaf, as he leaves his dishes.

Then decides to rinse them off.

Then washes them.

When he is done she is watching him still. Her eyebrows are up. But only slightly.

She can stay as long as she needs to, and he has plenty of room, and he's not here much. She considers this. "Can I borrow your driver to go get some stuff? From the hostel."

wolfman

Wolf's already started to head off. Turns. Scoffs.

"Why're you asking me? Just talk to him. His name's Franklin." He's at the foot of the stairs when he thinks of something else. "You going right now?"

witch

As condescending as he tries to make it, that's still a yes. And she is finished eating now, so she just hops off the barstool, carrying her plate around. And she scrapes it. And she washes hers, too.

The water is running, and he speaks, and she looks up. The water cranks delicately off.

With a glance at her brew on the stove, she turns back to him. Nods. "Have to wait on that a bit. May as well use the time." And the leftover adrenaline.

wolfman

Brow wrinkled again; mouth flattening. A couple seconds before he says, "Go tomorrow. I'll go with you. Just in case." A hand reaches up, rubs the side of his neck, ginger over the bandages. "I'm not much use right now."

witch

She looks at him. Level. "One bad thing --"

if you leave out the guy terrorizing her on the bus

"-- doesn't necessarily invite more."

Devon shrugs, putting the plate and fork and glass on the mat by the sink to dry. She dries her hands on a towel somewhere. "I want clean underwear. And I don't like leaving my stuff there overnight."

wolfman

That hand curved around the back of his neck turns into a hand mopping down his face. "Fuck." He turns, comes down the step or two he'd gone up. "Whatever. I'll take you on my bike. You don't have that much stuff, do you?"

They're not heading back toward the garage. The other way: the front entrance. He stops by a small closet to pull out a battered motorcycle jacket. Looks almost exactly like the other leather jacket he frequents, except with padding. There isn't a second one for her. As he's zipping himself in, the wolf realizes this. Pauses, reaches into the closet, pulls out some random hoodie or something and hands it to her.

witch

She wrinkles her nose a little.

Maybe she was hoping to watch him go upstairs, get his driver, and get her stuff in peace. Maybe she doesn't want his company. Maybe she doesn't want to get on a bike. Maybe she does have a lot of stuff.

They aren't heading anywhere, since she's not following him. He's zipping up, turning to hand her a hoodie or something, and instead of a wrinkled nose her brow is up. "Why?" She gestures at the garage. "There's a car. With heated seats."

Oh yes. She noticed that.

wolfman

"Because I don't want to bother Franklin. And because I hate riding that thing around. Makes me feel like Paris fucking Hilton." He shakes the hoodie at her. "Put that on, unless you like windchill."

witch

"Well that's just too fucking bad," she says mildly, of either his not wanting to bother Franklin or not liking riding in the car. She cross her arms loosely over her chest, gingerly because of the way the muscles pull at her side. Doesn't wince, though. "I'm not riding bitch on your bike."

Before he can reply: "Franklin?" she calls out.

Rather loudly.

wolfman

Hoodie hits the ground hard, flung there in a sudden flash of fury. Wolf advances on her, stormy brow and clenched jaw. Explodes: "Where the hell do you get off?

"I saved your goddamn life. I healed you, I fed you, I clothed you, I'm putting you up in my house because I don't want to see you dead. You said you want to get your stuff. Fine. I told you Franklin can drive you in the morning. You said no, tonight. Fine. I'm taking you tonight, with my face carved open, with my back half-flayed, with my bones showing in my arm, because you can't live without clean underwear for eight hours.

"But that's still not enough for you. You gotta wake another man up, drag him out of his house, make him drive you. Because you need your shit. Tonight. And you need to get it in a goddamn chauffeured limousine, like a fucking movie star. You spoiled, selfish little shit."

Franklin's standing in the kitchen doorway, mute. Eyes wide.

witch

[wp -4]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (3, 3) ( fail )

witch

She flinches.

We ask again, still, if he laughs.

And she rears back a bit. Keeps her feet but pulls her upper body away as he roars in her face what he has done for her. Calls her spoiled, selfish, star.

Shit.

After he's done there's really nothing. There's silence. And he can see that some of the blood has drained from her face. Sees that what adrenaline had worn off in her has surged back. If he listens, might hear her heart pounding. Her eyes don't blink but that's not the same as staring him down. More like a deer. More like the doe that her breeding says she is, caught motionless in the woods until the nearby fury of a wounded wolf goes quiet again.

Having her arms crossed already makes it easier to hide that her hands are shaking. She isn't standing her ground bravely or proudly in the face of this; she's frozen, trembling, standing stock still like any prey animal would, alarm bells clanging in her mind while some instinct of hers calls out to the gods of her people that she doesn't get eaten.

Then her lip trembles like her hands do. And her brow wrinkles in whorls and furrows of skin. Tears well up. They aren't even cognizant. He's just... scary. And his rage, sparking against his anger, so vastly eclipses her inner strength right now that she can't do anything else.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't laugh. Wolf hasn't laughed once, for all his caustic, vicious words. Wolf snarls, and roars, and shouts, and when he's done girl's pale-faced with tears in her eyes.

The wolf wheels away. Rough, angry gesture, shoulder-led. He grabs the hoodie off the ground and throws it again, flings it furiously back into the closet. Flings the door after it. SLAM. Franklin jumps, all the way across the room, but man like him has served wolves all his life. Wolves stronger than this one, mightier, more experienced, more deadly.

He doesn't go running. He stays there, seen and unheard, the way he was taught.

"I'm sorry." That comes out of the wolf eventually, hard-bitten, muttered. His back is turned. "I'm sorry. Okay?" He makes an angry, exasperated gesture, means nothing. "Just take her." Talking to Franklin now. "Get her stuff. Bring a gun. Fuck."

witch

They are nowhere near the same size.

They aren't even, really, the same species.

On a better day, a different hour, she can at least withstand it. Knows not to look him in the eye too long, challenge him to brazenly, piss him off. Right now it's all she can do to stay on her feet instead of throwing herself on the ground, quite literally begging for mercy.

don't kill me don't kill me don't kill me

So that's what she does, but it's all she does. She doesn't throw herself down. She doesn't beg. She just starts crying, obviously trying not to. Makes a noise when the door to the closet slams, and her hand is covering her mouth when he starts to talk again, but he's not looking. He's saying he's sorry. Sorry, okay?

Behind him, she sniffs. She doesn't dare say a word. Not until he's gone. Not until he's out of sight and somewhere else, a door closes. She looks at Franklin, then, tears staining her face, her head pounding now from the blood rushing upward into her face. A few more seeping drops through her bandage. She's shaking hard enough, still, that when she goes to turn off the burner and move the pot off the hot surface to a cold one, Franklin has to help her so she doesn't spill scalding fluid all over herself, or burn her hand off.

Wherever he is, a few minutes later, he hears the garage door opening, hears the door to the kitchen opening and shutting. Hears the car pulling away. Franklin takes a gun. Devon stays barefoot, huddled in the back of the limo in her borrowed clothes against the heated seats.

--

It doesn't take very long, all told. She goes to Broadway and the hostel. She gets herself in and she gets what she came for as quickly as she can, and then she's back out to the limo. The driver is watching. Maybe he's even with her, standing stoically by the door. She doesn't tell him what to do. She hasn't said a word since she called the driver's name.

They drive back.

Nothing bad happens.

--

So again: the garage door opening and closing. The door to the rest of the house opening and closing. Something thumping on the floor as it is dropped: that would be the duffel bag she carried in, along with a backpack with leatherette (reinforced with duct tape) straps and the pale grey background and the pink stars all over. The duffel has a zippered top and is larger than a gym bag, smaller than Army surplus. It's mostly green and white and black.

Devon isn't shaking anymore, and her face is dry. She feels exhausted now. All the night has gotten to her, finally. She's so tired.

But she stops in the kitchen. She needs to pour the cooled-off brew into a clean jar, the lid screwed on tight, left on a windowsill where the crescent moonlight -- and tomorrow, the sun -- can get to it. Which she does. She is shaking again when she's done, but not from terror. Just weariness. All the same: she carries her own stuff up the stairs and into the bedroom she used earlier. She collapses then, on the bed, with her teeth unbrushed and her bags still packed and the soles of her feet a little dirty and the bright red droplets that seeped through her bandage turning a dark brown, then black.

She doesn't even get under the covers.