<span style="font-family: 'Arial'"><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff9999">They were different, he and her. They came from different worlds, from different molds. They might both be shifters in their own right, but they were cut from a different cloth in how they did it. Even though her family had migrated from old traditions, old ways, living among humankind and hiding their very nature -- they were still one of the fae kind. While her own parents had been killed, her Granna had raised her, until they were all summoned back behind the veil.<br/>
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“You know what I am,” she said softly, once she had gained some semblance of her composure. Her hand lifted, swiping the salty tears that turned her face red. “Who do you think took me?” The darkness was back in her voice, the upset bitterness that overlapped with the desperate sadness as she searched his face. Still, it wasn’t fair to throw the question at him like that. “Hunters of my own kind that are trying to round us up. Because we don’t belong. I have to close the door and make sure that they don’t find us.”<br/>
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Us. Herself and Eoin. Because they were take her daughter faster than they would take her, guaranteed. She left that part out as cold panic seeped in as his own expression changed. Her throat was starting to tighten again. Rory even took a step back as she glanced over her shoulder to the room where there was a dead body waiting for them. That alone made her snap back, anger rising in her own voice. “Your new lifestyle made me reconsider leading with that. Your warm welcome when I showed up also helped. I don’t know what kind of thing you’ve become, Dante, or if you would react as fondly as you have with me if I had just blurted out that you knocked me up right off the bat.”<br/>
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She snapped shut again just like that, feeling hollow, spent. Seeing the shock and anger written all over his own face was enough. She did fight the urge to shift again, turn into something small and insignificant, but held her breath and the urge to do so until she had followed behind him to his car after a little nod. Still in his shirt and boots, she sat down in his passenger seat and slammed the door behind her. Only then did she let go, feeling herself twist inside and out, less violent than his own change. Hers wasn’t a struggle between two beasts in one skin, but a transition of power. This time, once the russet fur had emerged and her body shrunk down, it was a dog that sat on top of his crumpled shirt instead of a cat. Curling up, she settled her head on her paws and whined as her large dark eyes followed the movements of the outside world from the car’s window.<br/>
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Once they had parked, the leaped out of his side of the car, dragging the flannel shirt in her mouth with her, and landed just by his side when the door slammed shut behind him. Loping along just behind him, she watched him disappear into the living room, heard him take a seat, then turned again, the living stone safely in her mouth. She spat it out as she crouched on the floor, naked and cold again, then once more pulled the flannel shirt up and over her head.<br/>
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Hair mussed, back rigid, and face carefully stone walled, she tucked the little bit of stone into the shirt’s front pocket, then padded into the living room. She hesitated before she took a seat, then picked the old arm chair to curl up in herself. The prickle of old emotions shifted inside of her as she sunk into the cushion, making her drop her gaze.<br/>
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“I need to go soon,” she said, quietly, her voice wavering. </span></span>