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The words replayed over and over in her head. She’d been blinded, blinded by a ******* blood thief, a mosquito wanting nothing more than the blood and power of something bigger and badder than he could imagine. She’d followed him around for days, possibly weeks, so she deserved the attack; she’d deserved to have the sight sucked right from her eyes. That’s what happens when you openly shadow your prey, she told herself. That’s what happens. And it’d happened. Simple as that. But beyond the blindness, underneath the anger and irritation and fear -- yes, fear -- she’d focused on the words he’d said to her. She’d decided, after her vision had returned and the negative emotions had gone, that the man likely couldn’t decipher between flesh-and-blood people and ghosts.

Not long after her vision returned, Clo returned to the caverns. She went back to sharpen her blade on the bones of her enemies, but she also went back for him, the nameless one she’d come to enjoy stalking. Oh he had a name, a real one, but they hadn’t been properly introduced. Yet. All she wanted to do was follow him around, to have a genuine conversation with him, and maybe it had something to do with the overwhelming sense of loneliness that had fallen over her. Nothing she did actually worked, but she tried. She longed for more and more conversation, more and more communication, and maybe the blindness had been worth it, in the end. He’d spoken to her, after all. He’d acknowledged her, where she’d only been the one to acknowledge him.

In the dimly lit interior of the caverns, she began to hunt for him. She remembered the way he looked and the way he smelled, but the overwhelming stench of the damp interior and the conflicting scents of everyone else inhabiting the rocky corridors made tracking him difficult. Clo had to rely on sight, which meant she had to comb over every inch of the caverns, even the dead-end sections she’d come to know. During her searches, she’d stumbled across plenty of people she knew, but she wasted no time stopping and chatting. Habren. No, not him. Jersey. No, not him. The more people she passed, the more hopeless she became, for what if he decided not to explore the caverns that day? What if he never went back? What if she never saw him again? She had to see him again. She just had to see him again. His stupid hair. His stupid accent. What if she never saw him again?

Clo reeled back and slammed her fist into the cavern wall. A chunk of rock fell from the wall and dust fell from overhead, but the corridor itself held strong. She’d held back, but not enough. Blood coated her knuckles and her palm. She’d had her fist so tight that her palm bore the indentations of her nails. As she rounded corners and checked the numerous passages, she grew more and more disappointed. He’d gone. Their game hadn’t been interesting enough. And so, he’d left. Right when she’d decided to give up, she caught his scent. More than that, she saw a vague outline of his figure. Slowly, she approached him. The last time they’d met, she’d threatened him, but that had been out of anger. She’d still been so angry that he’d blinded her.

“Don’t you ever go home?”

The caverns held a certain appeal for the artist, something about the damp darkness and potential threat around every corner that got his heart racing and the blood pumping in his veins. On occasion he'd just strolled through there, taking advantage of the walking meals who stalked the place but today was different. He was inspired but what had happened to him in the darkness, by the things he'd seen, felt, smelled and tasted. The spray can was full and it felt cold in his hand, a comforting weight. It was hard in the low light, he'd managed to set up a large torch that emitted a warm glow, angled upwards to catch the splashes of colour he applied to the wall. At first it was a blur, a mess of colours layered and built over each other, Trigg using different shaped pieces of cardboard to block sections on occasion as he worked. He loved urban landscapes like this, so many walls untouched and the challenge of the dampness making his paint run slightly only added to the mood. The man tried to work with his environment rather than against it, creating a build-up of paint that would drip down, a vibrant scarlet pouring down cheeks and pooling beneath his subject.

She was white as the light of the moon, surrounded by cascading waves of dark hair, alive with movement. Her hand stretched out blindly, seeking, palmed stained the colour of the blood that ran down her face. It was coming from her eyes, though they were covered by a strip of fabric, blinded. A streak of blood seemed to pool at the corner of her lips, splattering them in that seem red. He imagined she might flick her tongue out and taste it, marvel slowly giving way to horror at the taste of her own blood. Did she bleed? He was unsure. Ghost or vampire. He'd wanted to bite her, to pierce through porcelain pure skin, but he'd found himself sprawled on the ground with a head injury for his efforts.

He could never seem to sink his teeth in, and that made him doubt his senses.

She'd stalked him, following his movements through the caverns, pausing to whisper nonsense in his ear before seeming to disappear. She moved like a serpent, silent and fluid. It scared him. It excited him. What the hell was it all about? Since he'd blinded her the outcome had plagued him, staying away for days just in case she tried to kill him for his efforts, but eventually curiousity won. Curiousity always won. If she had regained her sight then he wanted her to see, wanted her to know. He remembered.

Trigg had been absorbed in his work, the final details of bringing her to life far more delicate and taxing than the larger scale work, every line and stroke vitally important. The world became distant, just the smell of the paint that seemed to have penetrated the bandana he wore over his mouth and nose, and the image in front of him. The image of HER. It was dangerous, his focus a cold thing that held him in its arms. It was probably why he nearly ruined the piece with a slash of vibrant red across the bottom of the tattered ghostly pale blue dress she wore in his image as the real thing spoke. "Izzit?" He croaked out in surprise, executing a lazy lean that had his body half turning towards her, head following until those gold touched hazel eyes widened on her visage. She was there, in what he was doubting was "the flesh". "Here to bliksem me, chick? I was in a dwaal..." The young man blinked rapidly, realising his voice was muffled by the bandana reaching up with a slighty unsteady hand to tug it down, letting it hang around his throat like an accessory. "I'm busy just now." Those eyes closed, brief and tight, almost as he thought doing so might make her go away, that when he opened them the woman that haunted him would let him be.

He knew it was juvenile and unrealistic, he knew that for whatever reason she was going to stay until she got what she wanted from him. Trigg just didn't have a clue what that was.

Clo stepped closer to him, and maybe she shouldn’t have, but she saw something of a similarity between the paint and her husband, and that made closing the distance even more imperative. She had to look at herself, to note the similarities, yet again, between herself and the image scrawled across the cavern wall. Pale skin, dark hair, but the blood was wrong. The blood was all wrong. She raised her hand as if to show him what her blood looked like, black and so quick to vanish, but the blood had already gone, as if it had never existed in the first place. Clo had nothing to show him but her hand. Even the superficial wounds had closed. With great hesitation, she lowered her hand to her side and simply stood there, marveling at the image of herself.

The air stunk of paint, a stench that overwhelmed the musty smell of the cavern, and maybe she enjoyed the fact. Yes, she enjoyed the smell of the paint. How long had it been since she’d been present for such an event? She couldn’t recall. Days. Weeks. Months. Looking at the image of herself, Clo was fascinated with all the effort the man put into his work. And why? Because she’d stalked him? Because he’d blinded her? The image itself brought up memories of the time he’d blinded her, when she’d struggled to find the tome home, when she’d struggled to navigate through fadeportals. The image he’d painted on the cavern wall should have ignited anger, not curiosity, and certainly not awe; instead, she succumbed to the better emotions. She succumbed to the idea that maybe he had some sick fascination with her, in the way that she had some sick fascination with him.

Clo didn’t notice when he removed his bandana. One minute, his voice had been muffled, and the next minute, he’d spoken clearly. The way he said that he was busy almost seemed like he dismissed, like he had the nerve, the audacity, to simply wave her away. And then he closed his eyes, as if she would disperse, a ghost on an imaginary breeze. She almost snorted, but she kept the noise to herself. She reached out to touch his face, but her fingertips simply ghosted over his flesh. Some part of her wanted to take his head and barrel it into the portrait, to paint the cavern wall with his blood, to see what her image would look like stained with real blood. Instead, she pulled away. Neither of them needed to know. Doing such a thing would be a pity, a waste of someone. Doing such a thing would be a mistake.

“Open those pretty eyes for me,” she whispered. She meant to lull him into a false sense of security, and also to compliment him in the way that he complimented her. “I’m not a ghost,” she added, as if he needed to hear such a thing -- and maybe he did need to hear that she wasn’t a ghost. “You really blinded me. I really am standing right here. I really am looking at the work of art you created.” She didn’t need to add that she was flattered, that she found his work to be flattering. She couldn’t find the words anyway.

“I bleed black, you know. Not red,” she began again. She always found herself talking when she was nervous, whenever she felt she needed to fill the air surrounding her with something other than silence. “Do you want to see it?” Offering felt a lot like luring him in a little bit at a time. She felt as if she were offering him that first piece of candy, the one he needed to make his way down the darkened path.

She didn’t know what she wanted out of the man. No, she simply wanted him, as she’d wanted others before him. Clo collected people in the way that others might have collected baseball cards. She wanted to dominate him. She wanted to own him. He needed to belong to her. He just didn’t know it quite yet. Or maybe he did.

He could've imagined it, that hand reaching for him, fingertips ghost light barely brushing his skin, stirring the fine hairs that covered flesh protectively. There was the slightest stubble to his cheek and he swore it bristled under the perceived attention, attention that he doubted even as it happened. Maybe she couldn't touch him, maybe it was a breeze that had felt like a cool caress. His lips parted on a sigh, almost involuntarily, as if he might turn his head and try to kiss the hand or bite into a finger for daring to trespass. His fangs ached, a swollen, throbbing pain at his gumline as they forced their way slowly into existence. Trigg stood still, the slightest tremor of contained energy about him, the only hint that fight or flight was kicking in other than his heartbeat. Yes, his heart raged inside the cage of his chest, a strange rhythm kicking like a mule at times so that he felt choked, as if it had jumped into his throat. Speaking wasn't likely until he swallowed it back down.

Then she spoke to him.

Pretty eyes? That earned a raised brow, one eyelid opening slightly, squinting at her in the low light. How could he fully believe her? She said she was there, but maybe she didn't know she was dead? Trigg let his eyes fully open, looking at her more directly, letting his gaze move over from head to toe, taking in the details, noting ones he'd missed. It was tempting to turn from her now, to add them to the portrait while there was still time, before he forgot or madness claimed him. Because surely that had to be the answer, that he was going mad.

Maybe it was the madness that had him leaning in towards her at the offer, his tongue rubbing lazily at a fang, getting used to the feeling of it in his mouth, cleaning it of the faint pink of blood that had come forth with it. "Black?" His voice pitched strangely on the word, a dreamy quality to it that had him clearing his throat, frowning at the betrayal. Vampire blood was thicker, darker, but he hadn't seen blood that was black as pitch. Part of him wanted to. He definitely wanted to taste it, he felt the strangest mixture of parched, utterly thirsty and yet the thought of drinking made him want to gag. Blood did that to him.

Trigg had never pretended to be a genius, he knew that he made stupid choices but only in hindsight and let himself get too caught up in potential to see the risk. All he could see was the chance to find out if she was flesh and bone, if she bled in earnest. Wordlessly he reached for her, an echo of the ghost touch she'd performed on him, the backs of his fingers sweeping softly against her cheek, knuckles tracing the line of her jaw. He watched the movement of his hand with unbridled fascination, no real pressure in that touch merely sensation. Trigg imagined there was a spark trapped between them, his skin and hers, if he made real contact then it might just set off the charge and send him reeling. It didn't stop him. His eyes were lit with curiousity, especially when his hand turned, fingers curled in towards his palm so that the knuckles of his first two fingers rested ever so lightly against her chin to act as an anchor. There was restlessness in his movements as a thumb lifted boldly to settle at the middle curve of her lower lip. Trigg hesisated for a breath, the pad of his thumb hovering before it lowered, dragging softly against the fullness of flesh. Seconds felt like eternity, watching her lip yield and drawing downwards under the delicate pressure, feeling the faint moisture as the very tip of his nail flicked against the inner side of her lip when he released it.

****. She was real.

He pulled away as if he'd been electrocuted, stumbling back a step and nearly ending up on his *** thanks to a stray paint car he tripped over. He caught himself against the ground, pushing up to standing and ignoring the sting in his palm where it had grazed against the cavern floor. "Fok me, you ARE real!" The words were followed by a sharp bark of laughter, one that didn't cease, that only grew until it was a wild thing. It echoed off the walls, surrounding them, his deranged, delirious laughter. Trigg imagined he was going to pass out, maybe from the paint fumes or the way his heart stuttered in his chest and he had the strangest thought. Would she catch him? Did he WANT her to? That began to sober him, the laughter turning into shyer hiccups, that gaze cast away because looking at her right then felt wrong somehow.

The whole thing was wrong, but he didn't try to get away. Not from her.

Black. The way he said the word -- the intonation -- made her smile. He never did say if he wanted to see her blood or not, and she refused to ask again. One day, she would show him; one day, he would know. Right then, he seemed to have something else on his mind, for he stretched out a hand to touch her face. The feeling was foreign. Not many people touched her; in fact, no one but Jesse really touched her. And she preferred it that way. Anyone else violating her personal space died. Clo had to resist the urge to slap his hand away, to back away from him as if she were burned. Instead, Clo stood there, fighting her urges, and allowed him to brush his fingers over her cheek. Rough, smelling of paint, his fingers traced a line over her pale flesh, and yet there wasn’t much force behind the touch. There wasn’t the friction she so despised. He seemed as hesitant as she had been, and so she allowed him his chance to explore a portion of her face, only a portion. Anything more would have ignited a fury he couldn’t have imagined. Anything more would have been far too much. And yet he had to touch her lips, he just had to touch her lips. His thumb came down on the curve of her bottom lip and the venom began to gather in her mouth. One bite. Just one bite. She only needed to part her lips and capture that digit between her fangs. Two fangs. Four fangs. All fangs. She had her choice. She chose to close her eyes and take a deep breath, one that allowed her to focus on something other than poisoning the man she wanted, the one destined to join her collection.

He stumbled back and she heard the clink of the paint can, the din of the paint can. He’d tripped, and nearly fallen, and that got her to open her eyes again. No longer was his hand on her cheek, his thumb resting against her lip. He’d been so close. When he exclaimed that she was real, his words broke the spell and she found herself simply blinking at him. After her words, he’d still thought she was a ghost; after her words, he’d still doubted her honesty. The laughter that followed seemed unnecessary, but she allowed him his moment. She crossed her arms over her chest and refused to judge him, though every part of her wanted to call him utterly mad or utterly annoying.

“Are you finished now?” She wanted to ask him, as his laughter slowed and eventually died. But she stopped herself. Surprisingly, she wasn’t in the mood to jump to the conclusion. She wanted things to occur quite naturally, as she’d wanted for some time. Yes, she was real. Everything about her screamed real. And he knew. Now, he knew. And he wouldn’t run from her anymore.

That last statement came with the possibility of being a question. She didn’t know if he’d run from her. She didn’t know if she’d chase him. Sometimes, she waited her victims out. Sometimes, she chased her victims down.

“Yes,” she spoke, cutting off her thoughts and any possibility of going down the darkest of roads, “I am real. I’ve been real this whole time.” She wanted to huff at him, but she hoped the look she gave him spoke volumes. She wanted him to know that she was real when he blinded her, real when he left her to struggle on her own. Clover wanted him to feel bad. Unsure of whether he would or not, she left the subject alone.

He’d gotten too close, she’d decided. But what if he’d gone farther? Would she have let him? Her imagination had taken her away, providing her with an endless list of possibilities. And then her anger flourished. How she could kill him. How she could feed from him. Ripping his throat out. God, did that sound amazing. Clo stopped her breathing, just to block out his scent, even as the venom remained in her mouth. Just one bite. Just one nibble. Just one lick. Just one taste.

“What’s your name?”

It wasn’t his fault.

He’d done nothing wrong.

Nothing had happened.

Why did she feel the urge to slaughter him, as if that would somehow erase those thoughts, those possibilities?

Guilt.

And yet she remained where she was, as she was, no closer to killing him than she had been only moments before.

Not guilty enough.

She was real, but that didn't mean she wasn't dead.

Well, technically dead. Clinically dead? Honestly, he wasn't sure how it worked. He'd dove head first into the whole thing because he wanted to spite a Paladin who had tried to get him to join their creepy *** cult, so he'd played with vampires instead. Not smart, no forethought.

Once again he found himself in a situation largely of his making, though he hadn't started this and didn't know if he could have stopped it if he'd wanted to. Why didn't he want to? The realisation made his stomach drop, lurching angrily so that he had to resist wrapping an arm protectively around his midsection. She just kept staring at him, watching him. All the damn time. At first it had made him uneasy, afraid and then expectant. Sure the unsettling feeling didn't disappear but it lessened by other emotions, one of which he finally identified as not just adrenaline but excitement. Interest. He WANTED to see her down here, he wanted her to find him and to challenge him, or make him question himself. It had gone beyond curiousity of whether she was real or not, it was a game and he was very much playing it.

He knew he probably couldn't win.

There was something about her bordered on volatile, it wasn't just hostility but an explosive sort of thing, as if she were a ticking time bomb. People often said the same about him, Trigg had been known to lose his temper, to go off the rails over something perceived as insignificant to others. He loved a good brawl, to throw down and get dirty, to get bloody then drink it off later. Not that he was about to tackle her to the floor of the caverns, even if the idea had suddenly become more than a little bit tempting. People called it a death wish, that he was always seeking something close to the edge, and close to the end.

Now he stood apart from her, not too far, but far enough that she seemed detached and distant from his person. It made her seem unreal all over again, even as she seemed exasperated by his insistent questioning of her existence. Maybe he should tell her about the ghosts? Maybe she'd think him mad and leave him be. Did he want that? No. He didn't, he wanted to drag this out, to soak it in and make her work for it. For whatever it was she wanted.

"Trigg. Who the fok are you?" He hadn't intended to tell her, he'd intended to be a smart ***, but it came out. His palm was stinging now and it was distracting, the skin scraped up and blooding beginning to well, threatening to come to the surface. It shaded his palm in mottled shades of reds and blooming purples, the colour catching his attention as he stared down at it, gingerly touching it with the fingers of his unharmed hand.

Trigg.

“Clover.”

She usually had no problem sharing her name, and she had no problem then. His request was rude, but she overlooked his manners in favor of introducing herself. Clo wanted him to know her name, to put a name to the face that would follow him around the caverns, very much like a ghost, very much like a spirit. Instead of wasting time with small talk, she turned her attention to the cavern wall and motioned to the artwork there. Did she really need to say anything more? She found him intriguing; she found the art flattering. And yet what was he doing creating her likeness on a musty cavern wall? Didn't he have something better to do? Didn't he have a home? She didn't know what to say, that was the problem, so she remained quiet. Several minutes must have passed, where she just critiqued his artwork, and then she found the words.

“It's good, very good. I feel like a regular model,” she joked, breathing in lingering paint fumes. She loved the red, simply because it did look like blood, with the way it spread across the rock canvas. There was something else on her mind though, something more than the beautiful portrait before her. And she said as much with the way her eyes narrowed on him.

“You shouldn't have blinded me. I could have really hurt you, you know that, don't you? It would have been a shame. I don't want to hurt you. I would hate to. I don't like to ruin what I want, just like I don't like to ruin what's already mine.” She wanted to reach out and touch him, to do more than touch the space around him, but she refrained. “Do you understand what I'm saying, Trigg?”

I want you.

The words should have been in flashing lights, on a neon sign, or maybe on a billboard. But she only wanted to tease him. She approached him in a way far different than she approached others. She came from the front, in the open, and without such unbridled hostility. She had only the promise of violence, not a guarantee. And when she looked at him, when she really looked at him, she saw a perfect specimen. It was no wonder she wanted him. Whether he understood her clearly communicated desire or not, she wasn't sure, since she continued speaking. She changed the subject.

“Do you remember when I said my blood was black? I'm a shadow. It means I can manipulate shadows. I disperse into shadows. I reform from shadows. My blood is black because I'm a shadow. It's disgusting. I don't know how you blood thieves could consume it. Little mosquitoes.” She said the words fondly, as she stood before one. “I'll let you have some. All you have to do is ask. Whenever you want. But you will never attack me for it, you will never try to obtain some without my permission. That is my offer,” she spoke, quite smoothly, as if she'd considered the words for a time.

She didn't want to imagine Jesse's response, but she'd tell him, because they were communicating, because they were alright again. She'd tell him she wanted Trigg in the way that she wanted all prey. Clo meant to lure him in, to watch him, to really observe him. Finding the perfect prey was like finding the perfect toy. And she wanted Trigg so much, so much so that she'd do almost anything to have him. And she'd hope that Jesse would understand; she'd hope that her husband would support her. Because he and Trigg had so much in common, so very much. And, undoubtedly, Jesse would show signs of jealousy, and not without warrant. Clo fell hard for her victims, as if they were a part of herself that she'd lost, or worse, as if she adored them. It was difficult to explain that nothing ever compared to him, difficult to explain that her hunting was one of the more important things in her life, and difficult to explain that she demanded he lack such techniques. Those difficulties often led her to silence, the type of silence that led to disagreements, which meant she had to vocalize her feelings, stress the differences, stress the reasoning behind her desire for such an obsessive piece of work. And if she lacked the support? What then? What then.

Clover.

He doubted she would be his luck, or that her leaves could be counted to four. “Clover.” He repeated the word back to her into the silence left in the wake of her words. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence. He wasn't ashamed of his work and didn't mind her judging it. Art was subjective, though he knew objectively that he had talent and understood not everyone appreciated what he did with it. He didn't care. The only opinions he gave a damn about were his own and that of his twin brother. The rest of the world could hang for all Trigg cared. Was he selfish? Bitterly so. Vain? In a sense.

While she stared he watched, studying her as she studied his art with a patient contemplation. It was like they had all the time in the world. There were always hours in the day, there was always time but Trigg often found himself rushing head first and rarely taking time to really look around. When he actually remembered to be still he could be remarkably so, fall into a lazy stupor hours, just enjoying the world around him. He didn't know what she had wanted to say with the gesture to the piece but figured it wasn't important, it had gotten the desired result. It had gotten her to talk to him. To not just look at him, to really SEE him. Funny, he thought, that it took blinding her to get it.

The compliment that came next had his lips quirking into a crooked grin, one that didn't entirely fade when she delivered her warning. He’d enjoyed blinding her, the exhilaration and boldness of it. Could he tell her that? I wanted so badly to make you react, he wanted to say, to mark you for making me an object you observed. Trigg had found himself an unwilling participant in an experiment he wasn’t invited to part in and had merely become the subject of. He wanted her to KNOW. She was asking him a question then, one he didn't have an entirely appropriate answer to. What I want? Trigg understood. Want he could fathom, that desperate fleeting desire to claim something, to write your name across it with the subtle drag of nails or to mark the skin with suction bruises and sweat. No, that was something else. She didn't want him for that. The nod he gave her was curt, but agreeable enough. It was an invitation to keep talking.

And he listened when she did, lip worrying between his teeth and cautious interest in his gaze.

The offer was tempting, even with the description of the blood making his stomach twist uncomfortably. Did he even really want it? He enjoyed the hunt, the careless claiming of something that hadn't been his to take. Did he want to claim her? Perhaps. The desire to reject Clover was greater, to see if it hurt her. He wanted her to ask him again, to say his name like it mattered to her. It was stupid, would be an act of utter foolishness but that wasn't unusual for him. The stupider the better. He let her sweat a moment, indulging his own curiousity by moving closer, brushing by her only to turn on his heel and circle back once he’d travelled a few paces, shuffling his feet lazily on the cavern floor until he stopped a step behind her. Trigg was close, close enough that he could touch her, twist the ends of her hair between his fingertips. He didn't, he sensed the mistake in it. All the time in the world.

“Do you want me… to, Clover? You want me to want your blood?” The pause was artful, the sentence interrupted by an unsteady inhale, playing it up as if the idea excited him. Maybe it did, or maybe it was to see what she’d do. “Will you hide from me, chick? Make me work for it?” Say yes, please say yes. I want you to. I want you too? He felt twisted up, like some dark insidious thing had crept inside, making him wish his worst fears would come true just so he could tell them to fok off.

Once again he doubted his sanity, especially when he realised he was almost cool with it. Where was the panic that should be nipping at his heels? “Tell me…” It was a request, gentler than most of the words he’d spoken to her, the brash young man refusing to say the word please but with that tone he needn't. It was clear.

Surprisingly, his words made her feel more like the hunted than the hunter. His words made her feel vulnerable, and that vulnerability left her reeling. She had to wonder when he slowly removed her outer shell, expertly slipped his fingers right down to the core. Did he know, she wondered. Did he know that she thrived on her victims wanting her, needing her? Somehow, he'd looked at her and seen right through the mask. He'd straightened out the jumbled pieces and reconstructed the puzzle. And she didn't like it. His questions made her feel dirty. His request made her feel filthy. But she had started the game. She had no other choice but to continue; she had no way to swallow her words and erase her actions. She’d wanted to pick a rabbit and she'd found a wolf.

“I do,” she answered honestly, though quietly. Clo didn’t think she had the strength left in her to raise her voice. The way he’d asked that first question, the way he’d paused and inhaled, just so, made her shiver. Not out of desire. Not out of pleasure. But out of fear. She’d fallen down the rabbit hole, and who knew how far down that went, how deep into the earth. And as soon as she surfaced, she found her voice again; as soon as she surfaced, she regained the feeling of control and understood her own desires once more. “Don’t I always make you work to find me? Haven’t we played this game before?” She countered his question with another question, just to drive the point home. Yes, she could hide from him. Yes, she could make him work for her blood. They were making an exchange. One desire for another.

“You want to keep playing, don’t you, Trigg? I promise to make it fun,” she practically purred. Clo knew, even then, that he’d never see the edge of her blade or taste the bullets from her gun. Trigg belonged with her. Trigg belonged to her. Wherever he went. Whatever he did. “Give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want.” Want me, she said, without speaking. Need me, she whispered, lips never parting. She was falling again, as if she’d reached a full stop and the ground below her gave way. That familiar rabbit hole had swallowed them both then. They were two wolves freefalling into another world, a world where wants and desires were chips to be exchanged. They gambled. Neither one of them intended to lose.

Clover realized that her words left too much room. She was aware of the sexual undertones. She left the room just to see what it was that drove Trigg, just to see what it was that made the man tick. Clo wanted the obsession; Clo wanted the struggle. Trigg represented the something she’d been looking for, the missing piece. She’d sired Runi. She’d sired Song. She’d been looking for someone, something, anything, to fill the indescribable space left in her chest. And she’d taken a shining to Trigg. She’d found that piece, the piece that fit just so. He was rude. He had thrill-seeking behavior. He was a blood thief. He’d get her in trouble, just as he got himself into trouble. And she wanted that trouble.

The scent of blood hung low, buried beneath the scent of paint and the damp of the caverns. Clo tilted her head to the side and inhaled deeply. There. She pinpointed the scent buried beneath the other scents, the scent of blood that had been trying to hide from her, as if blood were capable of hiding from her, from anyone of her kind. Clo closed any distance between herself and Trigg and eyed him. Was the scent coming from him? It drove her mad that she had to find the source. She just had to find the source. She had to eliminate every other possibility. Was there a breeze? Was it stagnant? Was it old blood? Was it fresh blood? Clo ticked off every possibility. She leaned forward and smelled at Trigg, as if she were trying to bury her nose in his neck.

“You’re bleeding.” She spoke softly, sounding almost thoughtful. “It smells,” she stopped just to inhale deeply, “like a mixture of something delicious and something sour.” Disappointment. Relief. She didn’t know which one dominated her reaction. She inhaled once more and then slowly released the breath, as if savoring the scent. “It almost makes me want to taste you, just to see if it’s the same,” she smiled, wistfully. Oh, if she could. If she were daring enough.

He kept moving, restless feet completing the circle, bringing him back to stand before her like the charged awaiting judgement. Her soft tone only made him forward, all the better to hear her, echoing his own manner of request and quiet agreeability. Surely that couldn't last. These were two creatures on the edge, Trigg suddenly vitally aware of every shift in posture, alteration of tone as words passed her lips. Of course it was hard to ignore the flirtation, whether with danger or each other wasn't entirely cut and dry. Committing to it would be risky, so he too toed the line, not so much with words but pointedly watching her mouth at one point just to make her equally aware of it. He loved games, and the idea of one without a definable end or obvious winning conditions had him rapt. This is the kind of thing that Tanner would brood over, that would cause his brother to encourage him to stop and think. The problem with that was he wasn't doing so well at thinking right then and there, the blood was pumping and his heart was pounding. It made him feel lightheaded in the best possible way. Adrenaline rush.

She was a threat and an invitation wrapped up into a pretty package and he was all about unwrapping it.

"Tit for tat." He grunted the words, almost gruff in nature, playing the disapproving party even if his body betrayed him. The gold of his iris' seemed swallowed by widened pupils, his lips parted and the pink flash of tongue running the seam between them were clear indicators of nervousness and excitement. It made him feel like a junkie, just jonesing for his next fix. He wanted to taste her offering, and pretend like he didn't like it all that much no matter what came of it. Maybe he really wouldn't like it? Hadn't she warned her blood was darkness, that it was as black as the shadows that crowded every corner of this place? What would that even taste like, FEEL like? Would it somehow touch the place in him that was just as empty, the hollowed out void he tried to paint with vibrancy and feeling? He wanted so badly to find out. How easy it would be to take her in his arms, to push her back to that wet paint and let his fangs lead him.

He'd been so thoroughly distracted by the fleeting image and by the brief tugging desire it caused in his abdomen that he missed the shift in her. It wasn't until she had almost closed the last of the distance between him that he seemed to snap back in reality and became instantly ashamed of the way he flinched. Pathetic. His hands tensed at his sides, Trigg feeling the pull of damaged flesh, the injured palm warm and wet from the blood that had finally come to the surface. It didn't bother him. Her was so close, damn near coveting the hollow of his throat, the side of his neck as she breathed him in. It made him shiver from head to toe, every single hair on his body standing up on end and he couldn't quite decide whether it was or something else that caused the reaction. Tentatively he lifted the injured hand, placing it with little fanfare at the small of her back in a stabilising touch that was definitely for his benefit rather than her own.

Blood.

Trigg was bleeding in the presence of the vampire who stalked him, the vampire who had seemingly claimed him though he'd never actually said "yes" to the offer. What was she thinking? He couldn't tell, the sigh that was her voice leaving too much open to interpretation. He thought he probably smelled amazing, such was the nature of his me, me, me mentality. She'd want him and he knew it. Why did that make him feel about ready to shake apart then? "Issit?" His voice was rough, those golden eyes lifting to meet hers without challenge, just an open curiousity and quiet confidence that belied it. "Sour? Ja, like those green apples. I like those." He offered the comparison in the hope she might latch onto it. Trigg liked the idea of being something crisp and sharp, the sweetness almost overpowered by the sour so that you second guessed every bite. Her desire to try it should have had him reconsidering the deal or worrying about what came next, because that would be a perfectly normal reaction and far saner than his sudden breathtaking need to have her tongue trace his palm. His body was really reacting now and Trigg began to sweat, the cool air around them doing nothing to combat what had suddenly become an oppressive intimacy. She was too close, and he was too ready to risk giving in to any demands for what felt like the ultimate reward. Suddenly he'd reverted to a stupid, cocky teenager who was letting the hormones drive and the high of hope carry him screaming into the unknown.

"I'll show you mine, if you show me yours." Crude and juvenile, but there it was. My blood for your blood, and the bloody palm raising up beside their heads in offering.

All she had to do was turn her head and he would bury his fangs in that elegant throat.