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I’ve left the party at Arbor Vitae. I have no idea why. I can’t figure myself out, thus why I hate it when everyone else tries to figure me out. When everyone else dismisses me because they haven’t got a ******* clue. And why should I resent them for having no ******* clue, when I don’t have a clue myself? Why should I resent them at all? That’s what it is, isn’t it? It’s resentment of some unseen foe. A coil of strangling vine curling around in my chest and in my mind, poisoning every thought. Every time I do something nice, something friendly, something to make up for my behaviour, the poison thickens and spreads—as if something inside of me is punishing me.

I try to tell myself that I don’t care. I don’t give a **** what anyone thinks. Tytonidae is still my home—it has to be, hasn’t it? I forsook Altaire. I created a new line, because I had the ego to think it would last. It hasn’t. Axel’s the only one of my childer that I’ve seen in… how long has it actually been since I’ve seen any of the rest of them? My last conversation with Velveteen had me realising that even Axel is far more concerned with Phoenix than he is with me. He’s returned to the folds of Altaire. Fforde is nothing anymore. It’s just a last name that I’ve kept as a reminder of the humanity that I have left behind, the father who I don’t really remember.

My humanity is fodder for laughing stock. It’s not really a life to be proud of. And why should I cling to some flimsy notion that I had a father whose name I could be proud of? It’s all fucked. Everything is fucked. I should be happy. I do have Tytonidae. I have a home in the Eyrie, regardless of the fact that my childer, my progeny, have all but disappeared. I hate myself for thinking I should give in and give up—should crawl back to the woman who gave me this life, because perhaps there, I might find some comfort. I can’t though. How can I? She cut me off after I refused to give up my home. I know I have reasons to remain wary of her.

I push the thoughts from my head.

I have no idea where I’m going. I drive, the wind whipping my face, the hood billowing out behind me. I’m still half in costume. I don’t know what happened to my mask. It’s probably still on the floor back in the winery. I feel like I want to see something burn. Ever since I opened up my lighter out there on the grass—I’d contemplated burning something then, too, but had been interrupted by…who was it? Jonah? Before I could actually do it.

I stop in front of an abandoned building somewhere on the North Eastern side of the city. I park the bike across the road. I have to break the chain and near bash the door down with my shoulder, but soon enough I’m inside. I fish the lighter out of my pocket. I go up some stairs—the place is only two floors high. I start there, in one of the back corners. There’s an abandoned dresser, some old, moth-eaten clothes still inside. I set it on fire. I watch as it begins to burn, the flames small at first but growing to an inferno. I step away from the dresser, and go into the next room. I find some curtains. I light them, too.

This is how I roll, one room to the next, setting anything alight that looks like it will burn. Down the stairs, I do the exact same thing. Soon, the smoke is thick and black. I cough when I inhale—it can’t suffocate me if I don’t let it. But for a minute or two I forget that I’m not human anymore. I hack and cough and splutter. I fall to my knees. And there I stay, for another minute.

I’m so tempted to let the whole place fall down on top of me. So tempted to see if anyone…

…I grow, and shake my head. What the **** do I care if anyone would notice if I were gone? I scold myself, inwardly, for the weak thoughts. I sound like some kind of whining, emo teenager. I’ve cut everyone off on purpose. Of course they wouldn’t give a ****—I did that on purpose, didn’t I? I grin. Yes, I did that on purpose. I have succeeded, then. I stand, just as a beam of wood falls, crashing to the ground. Sparks flare and drift around me. It’s actually really quite beautiful. Yes… so ******* beautiful, the fire.

Now I’m at risk of getting crushed not out of some unreasonable suicidal urge, but because I am mesmerised by the untamable beast around me. I back up, straight for the door. I run across the road and perch on the edge of the bike, absolutely fascinated as the building is slowly consumed, right in front of me.

A low growl rumbled in Kleo’s throat as she raised her weapon. Swinging powerfully, the blade cut clean through the throat of the beast charging ahead at full force, sending blood every which way. The feral vampire continued to move in her direction, but the severity of the wound triumphed as it finally collapsed. Kleo used the tattered remains of the shirt clinging to its thin frame to clean her blade, but didn’t bother to harvest any of the parts for use in rituals or otherwise- her pack was full enough as it was.

Corvidae Flats was quickly becoming a favorite hang-out, and she probably should just give in and purchase an apartment for how much time she spent there. That felt frivolous though, as Micah had given her more than sufficient shelter. She’d leave if he asked her to, or if she felt she needed a space truly her own. Kleo had a strong idea of which would come first.

Looking around the spacious lobby, she saw several others engaged in battles similar to the one she’d fought. Grunts, bullets being expelled from guns, and the occasional swish of a sword were like background music- you didn’t notice they existed until they stopped and all was quiet. Choosing to lighten her load, Kleo traded in several fangs and bones for cash at the shop, slipped the profit into a hip pocket then exited the place the same way she’d come in.

The moonlight was as blinding as the sun- she hadn’t left the Flats in twenty-four hours. Her vision quickly adjusted and she pressed on, easing her slim body through the sewer entrance when she reached it. Kleo nearly landed on a resting vampire who’d chosen the spot immediately below to nod off. She cursed to herself before picking up her pace again, traveling east. An opening into Riverwood wasn’t far off.

As she hoisted herself out of the man made hole, her head turned about, checking for signs of humans who might notice. No one was in the vicinity, so she pulled her body out the rest of the way, and returned the heavy metal covering. She hadn’t really thought far ahead on what to do for the night after she’d finished hunting- everyone she’d usually text or visit was busy. Dusting herself off, Kleo shrugged and headed for the market- she hadn’t stopped by Masterpiece in a while, and wanted to have a poke around, hopefully catching someone working late. If anything, it would give her more time to decide how best to spend her hours before sunrise.

---

Reaching forward to pull the polished metal handle of the tattoo shop door, Kleo paused. Her nose twitched then her chin lifted- something was in the air, and it was acrid, like char. Kleo was torn on what to do, and her head bobbed from side to side as she weighed out the pros and cons. In the end, curiosity won, which was no real surprise. She could come back to the shop the following night she rationalized, it wasn’t going anywhere.

Kleo inhaled deeply, bringing in as much of the smell again as she could. She wasn’t an advanced tracker by any means, but the scent was strong enough that such skill wasn’t necessary. Following it north from where she was, the odor seemed to intensify with every step, validating that she was on the right track. She weaved through the streets, likely falling off course a time or two due to the gentle wind that blew past several times along the way.

Now in a part of town she didn’t frequent often, packed with homes and several businesses, Kleo was cautious. The scent was heaviest and it almost felt choking. Homes were becoming sparse as she continued, and the buildings in their place were rather dingy. Glancing up, her brows knit together as she saw smoke billowing upward and melding with the night sky a block over. There was a new sense of urgency- what was burning? How had the fire started? Was anyone hurt? But she knew she needed to remain inconspicuous, lest someone think her responsible, or otherwise involved. Kleo turned down a street that led directly to the fiery block, and as she got closer to the corner she could see the blaze, illuminating the road.

It was beautiful in its destruction. Even from where she stood it felt like an inferno. Now that she’d figured out the source of the smell she should turn back...but she couldn’t. Kleo found herself wanting to see the building fall, watch the flames grab hold of any and everything around and reduce them to blackened remains, so badly burnt that a single touch would cause them to disintegrate.

Kleo inched closer, rounding the corner. Instinctively, her eyes swept the scene for people or threats of any kind. She'd been about to deem it clear when she noticed a figure farther down the street, immediately across from the building on fire, leaning against a motorcycle. The light from the flames was illuminating their face, and recognition tugged at her mind. Her body seemed to be moving of its own accord, and she found herself halfway to them before she had a chance to decide if she wanted to approach at all. It was too late to turn back now, and as she got within reach of the person, she halted. Her hazel eyes stared forward at the profile of the man. She'd seen him several times before, and even talked to him.

“Jesse...what’re you doing here?”

She had no strong expectation of getting a response out of him, she knew Jesse was a man of few words from the encounters they'd had. Still, Kleo stood rooted staring at him, waiting for an explanation that may or may not come.

At first, there’s only a glow through the windows. A dance between shadow and light. No, actually—not a dance. A battle between shadow and light; the shadows fight for their lives, lashing out at the flames, but the flames are far too aggressive. The flames are far too strong for the shadows, and the shadows are beaten back. They are defeated. They are devoured. It ignites within me a similar kind of hunger. After this, I might have to go and indulge. Maybe not just one victim, tonight. Maybe a few, even though I don’t need them. One mouthful from each before I kill them. Snap their neck. Throw them into another inferno somewhere else. I’m almost hoping for a witness—for some stupid human to wander past on the way home from somewhere, to comment on fire, to pull out their phone to call the fire brigade. I could stop them. I could drain them, and toss them in the fire. Collateral damage.

I can see the figure approaching. A twitch of a smile tugs the corner of my lips. My fantasy is coming true. A curious person come to see the raging fire—because by now, it is raging. The battle between shadow and light is not confined just to the windows. It’s not just inside the building, now. No, the battle was won by the flames, but the war still wages. The flames have yet to conquer the wood and steal. Glass shatters, the window blowing outward due to the build of pressure inside.

I wait, nonchalant, as the figure continues its approach. Without moving, I assess the surroundings. Are there any residential buildings with windows up high? Is there anyone who could be watching me from above? No. Doesn’t look like it. There hasn’t been any other movement, aside from this. The closer the figure gets, even out of the corner of my eye, I can tell it’s a woman. Something about the way she moves. Even better. I think it’s safe to assume that I’ll be able to grab her—to drag her closer to the fire. To feed on her with the flames licking at our backs, the roar of it drowning out her sobs for help. The itch in the back of my throat, the burn of that insatiable fire within, reaches a crescendo. Yes, I have my plan…

…finally she’s close enough, and I turn to face her, just as she utters my name. My name. She knows who I am. I narrow my eyes; the attire is such that even in the height of Winter, I can see her tattoos. She has a lot of them, more than me, I could wager. Kleo. ****. Another vampire. Well, there goes that plan.

I swallow, though my mouth is dry. Dryer than usual. The thirst screams at me, fuelling an unreasonable fury. How dare she be here. How dare she be a vampire, asking questions that aren’t her business. This person who knows me, intruding when I don’t feel like having to ******* explain myself.

”I’m watching a good show. What the **** does it look like?” I ask. I stare a little too long at the curve of Kleo’s neck; I imagine what it would have been like, if she were human. I imagine if, maybe if I had the pleasure of attacking her, what it may have been like to feed the blood back to her; to form that connection that I have forged with near half a dozen thus far. I lick my lips. I dismiss the fantasy. It’s not possible. I return my glowering gaze to the inferno.

Jesse didn’t look happy to see her in the least and Kleo wasn’t surprised, he looked generally underwhelmed whenever she saw him nowadays. He didn’t answer immediately either, but her gaze remained steady. And when he did open his mouth to respond, she wished he hadn’t. This also came as no surprise- Kleo had run into him at Masterpiece not long ago. He’d shocked her by talking, though the glittering moment soon faded and she’d half wished he were mute again. The mute Jesse she’d met some months ago was more conversational than speaking Jesse. A lot of time had passed since then though, and she figured it was an instance of "people change."

His words cut through her, the feeling similar to if she’d been in the pathway of the thousands of glass fragments she heard shattering as windows blew out across the road. I’m watching a good show. What the **** does it look like?” Had he really...did he really just go there? Kleo could think of several things it "looked like" and none of them were nice. Her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched as she fought to resist a sudden overwhelming urge to bury her double bladed dagger into his neck and give a harsh twist or two. Had he been someone else she might not have been able to fight back the impulsive side, but the longer she stood looking at him, the more resolute she became in her theory that he was unwell. She hardly accepted this as valid excuse for his actions, but decided she could try not to let his attitude dictate her reaction.

"It looks to me like you're being a purposeless asshole, darlin'." Though her tone was sweet enough, it was evident anger was beginning to stir within her. "Ain't gotta get snappy with me just because something ain't right in there." She went on, touching a middle finger to her temple. "I ain't your enemy...but the night is still young." As the last word hung in the air, a devilish smirk tugged at the corners of Kleo's mouth. Perhaps that hadn't been the best route to go, but **** it. It was the tamest of replies she could come up with. Louisiana born and raised, she was a spitfire when tempted, and would be damned if she let any man talk to her that way. Papa didn't raise no fool, and Micah sure as hell didn't sire one.

The way he eyed her, like a piece of meat, was unsettling but Kleo didn't let the feeling of distaste touch her expression. She was the queen of neutrality. His tongue swiped across his lips then, and she wondered what was going on in that mind of his, and a second later came to the conclusion that she probably didn't want to know.

As Jesse's attention turned back toward the blaze Kleo followed suit, falling silent. The longer she stared into the licking flames, the more she thought. Why are we the only ones here? Shouldn't firefighters have arrived by now? And then it dawned her. "You said you're watchin' a good show...did you produce it, as well?" The question was posed casually, she didn't even bother glancing over when she asked.

Surprisingly, the fact that she pretty much told me, straight out, she thinks there’s something wrong with my head does not anger me. It’s something I’ve been aware of my entire life—the fact that I couldn’t talk due to psychological issues was a deciding factor in my mental health. I gladly told everyone there was something wrong with me, up there. Just because I have my speech back doesn’t mean that I have my mental stability back, too. Maybe I never had any mental stability. Maybe I’m actually bound to take after the Uncle who I so mercilessly slaughtered. Maybe it was a Freudian thing. He was, in a manner of speaking, a surrogate father. Not a very good one, mind, but a surrogate none the less. Maybe I have just killed my father, and the resulting freedom from his tyranny has… well, gone to my head.

I sneer at the woman, glancing sideways at her. At least she hasn’t offered me sympathy. At least she hasn’t asked me what’s wrong, like I’m some simpering child in need of motherly affection. That’s not what I need, and it’s not what I want. I may have thrown her into the flames, regardless, if that’s what she had offered me.

Not accustomed to actually snapping back—the art of conversation is still lost on me, whether it’s violent conversation or not—and silence pervades as the fire rages on. The silence does not last long, however, before Kleo is uttering another question. This one does not apply to me and my mental health, however. This one instead refers to the raging inferno in front of us. I’m actually quite proud of it, this thing that I have done. It feeds my need for chaos, and while I watch the flames flicker and dance, it feels as if they are my children. Just as I feel a flicker of pride when I witness my progeny acting the way they ought to, I now feel a warm glow just watching these flames—the ones that I have created. The ones that are doing my bidding.

I don’t answer right away. I bring a sooty thumb to my lips and chew on the nail, completely careless of the taste of coal. I ponder the question, perhaps more than is needed. It feels wrong, just to call it a show. To call those flames just some actors doing as they’re told, as if they’re only pretending to devour and run riot.

Pointless asshole, yes. That’s what she called me. Perhaps I am the show. I am the actor. And I need to stick to my role. I don’t contradict her. I let it slide. I am distracted. There’s a hole that needs to be filled, and the flames have filled it, for the moment. A moment of wholeness affords me a little relaxation—only a little, and only after the disappointment of missing out on a good feed has subsided.

Only after half a minute do I respond, crossing my arms over my chest.

”They’re more my children, than my actors,” I tell her, completely honest. Because why the hell not? I’m proud of them. I’ll share my success, quite happily. And perhaps, probably—as I consider the answer that I have given her and how utterly mad it sounds—reinforce the notion that I am mentally unstable. So be it. I don’t give a ****.

In the wake of the verbal assault, Kleo's hazel gaze continued to focus ahead. She found herself scrutinizing the most minute details, such as the way moonlight reflected off bits of glass that had been blown toward where she stood, far enough that she was able to notice how they gave the paved road the illusion of a glittering dance floor. With the thought came desire to turn it into reality- she imagined sprinting forward and letting her body take over while her mind was left elsewhere. The roaring flames (and Jesse) would be the only witnesses, the sound of their onslaught the musical selection...

Her thoughts were getting away from her as they tended to do often, and it took more effort than she liked expending to reel herself back in and focus on what was at hand.

Kleo could admit she felt a tinge of guilt and disappointment about her reply. She prided herself on being in control of her emotions, not letting things or people phase her noticeably. Quite frankly, she'd snapped. His seemingly harsh response to what she thought was a simple question had triggered the attitude laced words to spill from her mouth before thought was given to how they'd come across. So consumed in her own mind, Kleo almost forgot Jesse was at her side until he moved, bringing his thumb to mouth, where her eyes lingered before wandering over his face. Even with the ghost of an expression far from warm and welcoming still there, and the light of the fire in his pupils, he was a sight to behold. The tight countenance she'd taken up subconsciously softened, the muscles slackening, and Kleo pushed her hands into her jacket pockets as she waited for his lips to move, or any other sign that an answer was on its way.

As the quiet stretched on Kleo could've voiced regret about how she'd fired back at him, or perhaps offered words of support- but she didn't. Neither was her style. Regret was a feeling she did her damnedest not to allow herself to experience- she learned, then moved on. As for support, Kleo doubted that would go over well. She got the feeling Jesse would only be further antagonized, and in light of what had happened it would likely come across artificial anyway.

When Jesse's voice finally broke the silence, Kleo made a faint sound of surprise- by that point she was half convinced that after everything she'd said he wasn't going to talk at all. "Huh?" His words caught her off guard and the automatic response had been an accident. "What I mean is that's...interesting." And it was. The way he said it was so matter of fact. "So you're the turnout, come to give praise? Surely you feel some sense of satisfaction then, as the 'children' seem to be performing well..." If he wanted to call them his children, she could go along with that. Kleo's eyes slid to the blaze for a moment, then back to Jesse. This concept was much easier for her to handle than him cursing at her. In fact, in the grand scheme of things she didn't find it to be exceedingly odd. Would she be so brazen as to start such a fire then hang around watching- would she start a fire at all, probably not. She knew people had their "things" though. Perhaps arson was Jesse's.

I glance sideways at Kleo. At first she seems confused. I suppose I must have taken some time to reply, though. She probably thought I wasn’t going to. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I shouldn’t let people get too used to the fact that I can talk. Maybe, with strangers especially, I should still act mute. It would make my life so much easier. There’s a certain expectation that comes with the ability to speak. People expect you to answer questions. They expect you to fill silences. Perhaps I will never fully be able to meet the expectations of others. I figure I’ll probably always communicate at my own pace—thinking a hell of a lot about what I want to say before I say it.

The heat billows from across the street. Somewhere nearby, I hear a shout. From where we stand, we can only see the front of the building. I wonder how far the fire has spread. Is this building connected to others? Will it jump to other buildings, or will it remain contained? There are sirens now, too. Someone has called the fire brigade, as I suppose was always going to happen. As quiet as this part of the city might appear to be, humans have always been like ants. Or rats. You never know they’re there until you smoke them out of the woodwork.

”They do,” I respond, reluctantly pushing away from my perch against the parked bike. As wild and carefree as the flames are, they are definitely the product of arson. And although this particular crime does not give me away as a vampire, and I have not broken any of the vampiric laws, it still would not do to be caught by the cops. To be taken in to jail. It might be an adventure, but it’s not particularly one I want to indulge in. I still keep my human name. They’ll still have me on their records—I was a juvenile delinquent, once upon a time. I haven’t had much to do with the cops for around eight years now, though, and I’d prefer to stay off their radar.

I retrieve the helmet from where it hangs on the handlebar and mount the bike. I still feel reluctant. I feel connected to these flames, and feel like I should try to protect them somehow. But I have to remind myself that they are a force of nature, and they are not physical beings who will die, never to return, upon being doused. I can conjure them again, whenever I like. The thought buoys me, lifts my spirits. Maybe I can be more creative, next time.

I don’t really think about it, before I hold the helmet out for Kleo. I assume she’s coming with me. Don’t ask me why I assume, I just do. I’m not averse to the company, so long as she doesn’t expect a deep and meaningful. I’m sure I have other ideas in mind. Maybe she’ll accompany me to ‘dinner’. I suppose since I nearly saw her as ‘dinner’, and all the pleasures that I associate with the word, now, that perhaps my subconscious has other things in mind. I don’t plan, however. I just do.

I wait for Kleo to take the helmet, if she’s going to come with me. Wait for her to slide onto the bike behind me. Probably best to get the hell out of dodge.

Jesse's gaze met Kleo's momentarily, causing the shaped brow above her left eye to climb higher. Paired with the way her head canted to the side, a curious expression was formed. Kleo regarded him in this manner until a noise made by neither her nor Jesse broke her attention, putting her on the defensive immediately. Her eyes raked the area looking for the cause, but she saw nothing or no one to blame. Kleo wasn't convinced it was dismissible though, and not a minute later sirens began to wail, at a distance but getting ever closer. ****! I knew this **** would happen.

A pressing need came over Kleo- she wanted to leave now. Jesse spoke then, and though she'd heard, answering was no longer priority. Avoiding being spotted or incarcerated? Yeah, that seemed pretty damn important. Kleo imagined using an allotted jailhouse phone call to tell Micah she'd been arrested and needed him to come break her out. It might make for another good escape story to recount some time down the road...but she'd prefer to do without having that tale to tell.

As she continued to look around, Jesse mounted the bike he'd been propped against up until that point. They were on the same page then- he knew they needed to leave, but...was he intending to simply ride off into the night without so much as an announcement? Given their earlier exchange it wouldn't be much of a shock, and if she went now on foot, she'd be long gone before anyone reached the scene.

Accepting this as the probable plan, Kleo was thrown off when Jesse held out his helmet to her- the one she'd assumed he'd slip onto his head before departing. She stood there, unmoving for a stretch of a few seconds, then tugged the black beanie off her head. Folding the head covering over in her hand, she reached back to stuff it into an outside pocket on her pack. Kleo then took the protective hat Jesse offered, tightening the strap beneath her chin after pulling it down over her long mane of hair.

No stranger to being on the back of a bike, Kleo swung a leg over the seat, settling in behind Jesse. Where are we going? Is it a good idea to be going anywhere with him...is it safe? Kleo pushed the wondering thoughts away as they came- she wasn't hugely concerned about the answers. For the most part, she could take care of herself, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't curious about what he had in mind, if anything at all.

Kleo leaned forward, her weight pressing down on Jesse's back. "I'm ready to ride." She stated as her fingertips slid the shield of the helmet down over her eyes. Without hesitation her slender arms wound around his middle, and her hands clasped tight against his abdomen. "Let's rip it up!"

Holding onto Jesse, Kleo braced herself for the kickoff.

The woman slides onto the bike behind me, the length of her body pressing up against my back. It’s a relief to me, somehow, and I am completely aware of the contradictions running rife in my own mind. Kleo had hesitated for a couple of seconds, the span of which had me pondering why. Why have I invited her along? Here I am, actively pushing everyone away, but at the same time revelling in the feel of the woman’s body against mine. I realise that pushing people away is only a saying. You can be close to someone, physically, and still push them away.

The last time Kleo and I met it was at Masterpiece. I can’t remember the meeting in full detail, but I do remember that I was my usual self. How had she reacted? Had she seemed interested? Keen? Or is my course of action tonight likely to end in bloodshed, as she slices my dick clean from my body?

I have a new philosophy though, it would seem. I have a need for speed, for fire, for danger, and all the pleasure that a combination of these might bring. I am a masochist who doesn’t seem to be afraid of death. And when a man isn’t afraid of death, is there a limit to what he would do? I suppose I do have my limits. There are still rules that I know I will follow. There are still boundaries that I will not cross. Lately, though, those boundaries seem to have stretched, and my Oyster of a world got a little bit bigger. Maybe I’m searching for that pearl in the middle—that one glimmering piece of beauty that will satisfy all my needs and fill that gaping hole of an abyss that I can’t seem to fill within myself.

I don’t have to be shouted at to move. I slam my foot down on the ignition and the bike roars to live beneath us. The vibration of the mechanical beast adds fuel to the fire within me—a fire rivalling that of the real-world inferno that I have created in the building nearby, the heat of which billows at our backs as I rev the bike and speed out onto the street. The heat is left behind, replaced by a chilly, biting cold wind. It feels like shards of ice battering against the skin of my bare face, as compared to the cloying heat from moments before.

We pass by the speeding cop cars, their lights flashing red and blue. They hardly give us a second glance, though I half wonder whether I’d be pulled up for not wearing a helmet. They are far too preoccupied by an arson-instigated raging fire, obviously. And so they should be. I drive for about ten minutes. I finally roll to a stop on the other side of town, across the bridge. Swansdale spreads out around us, a veritable buffet.

Oh, I know why I want Kleo with me. That’s a no brainer. But I have a thirst that won’t let up, and I need to feed. The purr of the bike ceases.

”Care for a bite to eat? My treat,” I tell her. An innocuous invitation, though the words are laced with sinister intent.

The trembling of the bike between her thighs threatened to unseat Kleo, causing her grip on Jesse to become more constricting. She had just enough time to turn her head for a final look at the ruin he'd created before they peeled away loudly. The force from the speed crushed her chest against his back, and her lips came so close to his neck that he'd surely feel the warmth of her breath if she still had need for breathing.

As they rode along in silence, thoughts flooded Kleo's mind once again. She wondered how much time had passed since she'd found Jesse standing there in front of the blaze. It must've been a decent amount of time she concluded- she'd become so accustomed to the heat of the flames beating down on her skin, that feeling the true night temperature now was a pretty jarring awakening. Kleo could only imagine what the frigid wind chill must feel like against Jesse's face with him ahead of her taking the brunt of it. She should've forced her beanie onto his head, a thought that threatened to spill a laugh from her lips as she imagined it being a bit of a struggle getting him to cooperate.

For the second time that night sirens were sounding- a stream of fire and police responders likely on the way to the scene they'd just departed. Kleo's head turned left then right, following the flashing lights until they faded along with their accompanying sounds- this occupied her for quite some time due to the heightened senses she'd gained. When she finally looked forward again a contemplative expression set on her face as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. A familiar bank then a subdivision flew by before Kleo realized where they were- Swansdale.

Kleo perceived the slow down of the cycle she was straddling as soon as it began, her grip on Jesse loosening as they finally rolled to a stop. He must have a reason why he'd chosen here of all places. Perhaps he knew that must be what was running through her mind, because he seemed to provide an answer as soon as she'd thought about it.

His words struck her as odd- "Care for a bite to eat? My treat." What did that mean? Kleo was more than capable of feeding on her own (though it didn't always go according to plan). Why was it "his treat?" Maybe he'd said it without real thought- one of those things you tack onto the end of a sentence just because, or to be polite. Kleo wasn't sure though- Jesse was a man of such few words, that when he spoke she believed each word was carefully chosen.

Convincing herself she was over thinking, Kleo nodded then spoke."Sure?...Yeah, that sounds good. I could use a bite or two, I have a couple wounds that might be helped along if I keep myself fed..."