There is no order to the warring emotions doing battle inside her; fear does not overcome fascination, does not overcome hope. They cycle and interfold as she takes that first step toward him, the purring voice slithering through her mind goading her forward. His lips draw back in a warning, his teeth flashing in the weak light and she can feel the furious pounding of her heart, a caged hummingbird fighting for freedom. The fear overcomes for a moment, spiking as he takes that brazen step forward, further narrowing the gap dividing the heat of their bodies.

Up close, it is easier to see the mapping of scars decorating his shoulder, his neck, his back - a story of violence written on his flesh. She sucks in a breath, her mouth parting as if she might speak but no sound comes out. Is this the true face of death, or is the wolf merely a mask? The silence stretches between them like a dark canyon and she uses it as an opportunity to look him over more thoroughly, her eyes straining against the darkness and the exaggerated shadows cast by the moon’s glow.

She’s wrapped up in her admiration of him, in the thought that she might have truly found the face that’s haunted her since birth and his voice cracking the silence startles her back to the present. Her mouth snaps shut and before she can think of an answer to his demand - for it was a demand - he is gone, melting back into the shadows like a ghost. Go after him, death-bringer comes the ever-present coo, snaking through her thoughts but there’s no need.

She’s already following after him, too caught up in his orbit to let him slip away so easily. If he wants a hunt, she will hunt with him. She will follow him to the ends of the earth if she must, if it will bring her the answers she’s always hoped to find. Perhaps she is wrong and he is not Death. Even so, he is not like the others. She knows it as much as she knows her own soul; they are alike, somehow.

With that thought, she quickens her pace, searching him out, a moth to his dark flame.