[ She catches him like this, hand cupping a girl's jaw and runes stitched onto his skin and she thinks: I'd like to know those names. Did he ever earn them; where does he go? Did the girls laugh, did they smile, did they cry — a curiosity and a mystery wrapped up in magic and blood. It makes her heart thud up and out of her mouth. (When she sees him and he looks back, Loren laughs. A new, shallow fissure tears through the cracks of her stone, growing inward like veins, splitting then splitting again. That feeling that somebody is watching, the prickling at the back of a neck — it's her favorite brand of magic, but Eamonn is a hunter of-sorts too and that makes him fun.)
Time passes; she counts it in miles and minutes. Loren takes a detour because she can, because the animal was hungry and its talons wanted to rip and tear at flesh as well as soar. She announces her arrival at 12B with a bird's beak at the window, trio of taps too quick and too loud to be anything natural before she flies away. Eamonn will find her outside, wrists and pulsepoints anointed with oil, the soles of her feet caked with dirt and leaves in her hair. She sits on the hood of her car and winks at him. Something in her mouth cracks as her jaw chews; it sounds like bone. ]
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Time passes; she counts it in miles and minutes. Loren takes a detour because she can, because the animal was hungry and its talons wanted to rip and tear at flesh as well as soar. She announces her arrival at 12B with a bird's beak at the window, trio of taps too quick and too loud to be anything natural before she flies away. Eamonn will find her outside, wrists and pulsepoints anointed with oil, the soles of her feet caked with dirt and leaves in her hair. She sits on the hood of her car and winks at him. Something in her mouth cracks as her jaw chews; it sounds like bone. ]
Gotcha, Mr. E.