<div class="floatleft">[(http://i.imgur.com/JNiViON.jpg)      </div><hr/>Marie-Eve Tremblay<br/>Below Nocturne: floor H, private office<br/><hr/><br/>Mare's skin feels unnaturally hot to Tobias' touch, like a day's sunburn is emerging, despite the healthy golden glow of her skin.  Her face stays inclined, avoiding eye contact and walking with a meandering sway that causes her neck to tug lazily as if to test his grip, though she makes no attempt to break free.<br/><br/>She seems docile, tranquilized.  Then, with no awareness of what dangerous waters she treads, a young woman in a red and white latex corset leans too close, her perfect smoke-blue made-up eyes flitting over Mare's casual, college-town jeans and club top, measuring up her leather jacket and finding it insufficient to warrant a fetish lifestyle.  The girl's pulse rises, and Mare can smell the endorphine response, and can feel the girl lean out from her barstool into their path, flashing white-spiral lenses and fuck-me eyes at Tobias to attempt to snag him away from 'wharf-rat' Mare in a simple gesture of wanton sexuality.<br/><br/>Mare senses it all, and Tobias feels her muscles twitching in anticipation, the lean span of her upper shoulders tensing for the kill.<br/><br/>The girl at the bar licks a glisten of high-class, blue-gin martini from her bee-stung lip, rubs it with her thumb-- and Mare lunges.  With his preternatural strength, Tobias can prevent her from reaching the blue-haired heroin-chic model, and Mare seems to sense it.  So she doesn't test the leash, really-- just flinches enough that her beast flashes its fangs, and the young woman startles so visibly that she drops her martini with a clatter onto the bartop, spattering her herself with the cold kiss of chilled alcohol.  The bartender missed the silent, brief exchange, and as such he is quick to smooth it over... but they're gone by then.<br/><br/>During the elevator ride, Tobias can smell her pheremones.  To his keen senses, she smells primal and clean, like a rare infused oil from an old tomb.  Her breath is more rapid than it should be, and he can smell that she's vigorously aroused, whether for fight, flight, or fuck, it's hard to say.  She doesn't meet his eyes... she simply stares at the floor, breathing, forcing control as she pictures the fountain, the garden.  Snow falling at the treeline of a distant mountain.  Anything but<i>KILL FUCK RIP TEAR WRITHE GROAN DRINK</i>anything but... anything but.  A mountain.  Snowfall.  Leaves.<br/><br/>A door.  The hallway was a haze, the elevator ride an afterthought.  She's so intent on the moment she doesn't even question when the door opens, the dark room waits.<br/><br/>She steps in, her head then her shoulders disappearing into the shadow cast by the tapering light through the doorway, the contours and waves of crisp furniture lines wait before her.  Black leather, chic, mod.  Of course... the antiques are stored with the coffins.  She snickers, turns-- her eyes glimmer like luminous insects in the dark, silvery-white and predatory, as she lowers herself to the seat and crosses her legs.<br/><br/>"Like this," she says in a throaty, husky whisper.  "You want me... here?"  A low, slow laugh bubbles from her throat.  He can sense that she is half-changed inside, and the change is threatening to take her over...  a rough concoction of 'fuck' and 'murder'.