The man pauses, leaning against the side of the building to catch his breath, hoping that, this time, he's lost his pursuit, trying to slow his breathing, the loud, pounding rhythm of his blood crashing through his ears, straining to hear over his own body's betrayal. Wild, wide eyes search the alleyway around him as he puts his head down, hoping to get a brief respite, a moment to catch his breath and lose the one chasing him.

He's been on the run for months, and it's draining him, almost pushing him to the point that he wants to quit, to just give in, if for no other reason than he won't have to hear the sound he's dreading.

As his breathing slows, he straightens, listening, straining to hear...

...to find that the sound he is dreading is not there. The only sounds are the small, quiet sounds of the night around him. A long, ragged, shaky breath of relief is drawn in and let go as he leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.

Thank God for small favors, he thinks. Jesus, man, all of this for a f*cking hold up job that had only gotten him maybe 200 in silver, at the most...and no one had even gotten hurt!

He should never have let his friend talk him into it, shouldn't have said yes. But his friend had been desperate, had needed the money to pay off a debt to a man much bigger and badder than themselves. And he had agreed to help him.

He sighs, recalling it all as if it were yesterday, rather than months ago. Six long months of hearing those damned bootsteps walking up to his door, a steady, slow, clocking sound as rhythmic as a metronome, almost maddeningly slow and patient, persistent. Those same dark, cold eyes watching him, the small, infuriating smile on the man's face as he watched him run, walking after him with that same slow stride.

Never stopping, always there, until it seemed that, at every moment, he was hearing those steps. Waking up in a cold sweat in the night, unable to sleep, hearing those damnable steps in his sleep, even when they weren't there.

He had become a jittery, paranoid mess, jumping at shadows and the softest of noises, until he had ended up here, leaning back against the wall of a building in some stinking alley, his eyes closed, thankful just not to be hearing those bootsteps.

He opens his eyes, ready to move on, and the motion halts before it's even begun.

Right there, in front of his eyes, is a dark hole, surrounded by steel. The barrel of a pistol, right there, nearly resting against his forehead.

The sight strikes such terror into him that he almost forgets to look past it, at the figure holding it. The same tall figure that had been in his nightmares for six long months, his face cast in shadow under that broad-rimmed hat as he bows his head. A match flaring to life illuminates his features for a moment, revealing those same dark eyes looking at him as the flame is touched to a cigarette, then cast away.

Acrid smoke fills his senses as he stands there, paralyzed by panic, his eyes wide and full of fear as the bounty hunter looks at him. The silence, drawing out for what seems to be a significant portion of eternity, is finally broken as he raises his head and speaks.

"You have one of two choices here, boy. You can try to run, and end up with your brains splattered all over this here wall...or...you can stop running, give up, and keep breathing."

The voice is calm, the words spoken in such a way that they are almost unthreatening. One could almost hear kindness in them, as if he were offering the boy a gift rather than an ultimatum.

They have the desired effect on the boy, young and scared as he is. Without so much as a word, he raises his hands up to either side, closing his eyes again.

Curiously, as the man takes his hands and ties them behind him, the young man feels more relief than anything else, at the realization that, finally, it's over.

Three hours later, the bounty hunter walks out of the office of the Rhy'Din guard, shaking a leather sack which jingles, heavy with coin, a satisfied smile on his face.

On to the next job.

"I've got a good one for you, Bill."

He looks up from the bulletin board in the sheriff's office, looking over the posted fugitives and their bounties...That easy smile that comes to his lips feels, to him, so very brittle. He doesn't want to smile, he wants to hunt, and something other than kids knocking over mom-and-pop shops or B'n'E that had skipped out on bail.

He wants a real job, something that'll be a real challenge, for once.

"This isn't like the last 'good one,' is it' That kid could run, and he could even hide halfway decent, but it turned out to be a waste of time. In the end he was worn out."

The sheriff just chuckles, holding a slip of paper that's been folded in half to him, and walks back over to sit his fat ass behind the desk. Lazy bastard. Bill had been in Rhy'Din for four months now, and hadn't seen the sheriff do much, aside from lock and unlock cell doors and eat doughnuts.

Bill wasn't even sure it was called a sheriff here, but whatever. He's the guy in charge of the local law enforcement units, and that makes him sheriff.

He unfolds the paper and looks, noting first the big, bold black letters screaming across the top of the page.

WANTED, DEAD OR ALIVE.

The next thing he notices is the picture, and for a long time he simply stares at her. His face is as neutral and stoic as ever it is, but inside, something stirs slightly, some remnant of the man that still resides inside and is only allowed out of its cage when humans weren't anywhere near him.

Looking down further, he sees the price of the bounty. Substantially higher alive than dead. That gets a slight reaction, an eyebrow raised as he looks back at the sheriff, holding up the poster and putting on that easy smile, his tone light and amused. "Don't know if I'm supposed to hunt her down for the bounty or for her number."

The sheriff chuckles at that, nodding. "Yeah, she's a cutie, all right, but don't let that run away with you. She's about as cuddly and warm as a porcupine, Bill, and from what I understand, she has a personality to match."

Bill snorts at that, looking back at the picture. He can see that, of course - the picture really is worth a thousand words. After another long moment of staring into those eyes, he folds the poster up and shoves it into a pocket.

"I'll take it."

Maybe not so long gone as was thought.

He's always loved the desert. The hot, dry, desolate barrenness of it all. One of the extremes that nature would sometimes show, the scorching heat that felt like fire in your lungs, like an oppressive weight on your very body.

A person could go mad out in all this dry expanse, with nothing but the rodents or the vultures to keep you company, their endlessly circling forms just waiting for that final moment of collapse to bring them wheeling down, cruciform shadows falling upon a corpse to cleanse it from the land.

Much like the black, feathered forms munching on the girl hanging from the withered branches of the tree before him.

Not close enough to make him a noticeable presence, too healthy and in fit condition to be considered as a potential meal"yet.

Slipping from his mount, he strides over to the remains hanging from the tree, dark eyes looking it over with a critical, analytical gaze.

As he nears, the vultures give a raucous cry and take wing, fleeing the hanging figure as though he perhaps wanted some claim upon the dead meat for his own feeding.

Much of the meat is gone, huge tears and gouges in the corpse revealing the places where the birds had been feeding their appetites, gorging themselves. But still there's enough left to identify the remains as human, and female. A long, wavy shock of red hair hangs upside down, fluttering in the faintest of desert breezes like a fiery, tattered flag streaked with darker streaks where the blood from her slit throat had flowed over it.

The fortunate thing about the desert is that things out in it that are dead don't rot so much as they dry out, and therefore when he steps in close there's no stench, save for the coppery sweetness of blood.

He traces a finger along the wound in her neck, feeling the ragged edge of it, as though it had been ripped through rather than sliced.

"Hmm'serrated blade?"

But why this one" He can't see any reason behind it, really. Pretty girl, or at least, she was before the vultures started in on her. Jealousy' Rage"

He's not a sentimental man, not by a long shot, but even given that, he finds the death completely meaningless.

His eyes fall to the ground, following the traces and hollows where the killer had walked. Around and around the victim, looking her over, a smile on the killer's face as the best method of murder was contemplated.

And then, after the deed was done, walking away into the desert, without so much as a look behind"

He kneels next to the path the killer had taken away, looking over the traces. Meaningless to another's eyes, maybe, but he's been following killers for a long time, and knows the ways of reading the earth.

Small feet. A long stride, but still far shorter than his own.

A woman"

His woman"

Standing, he walks back over to the horse and mounts, climbing into the saddle again and guiding the beast along the trail he's found.

The game is indeed afoot.

And this hunt is, by far, the most challenging he has had in some time.

No mean amateur, this one, no petty criminal that had robbed some mom-and-pop outfit and was running in desperation.

No, this one is enjoying the hunt as much as he, it seems, as he crouches over the remains of a charred corpse.

How had he come this far, one might ask?

Well, it certainly hadn't been easy. Tracks can be covered, and not only had this one covered her tracks well, she had managed to do it in such a way that it blended neatly with the rest of the desert.

There had been traces, though. Certain small, faint traces, invisible to near all but those that know precisely what to look for.

Even so, it had been a b*tch of a time following.

And the funny thing is, he has the feeling that even those faint traces had been left intentionally, bait to lure him on, meant to intrigue him further, whet his appetite.

And now this.

It's not the easiest thing to see, but the corpse before him had been a man once. Perhaps not much of one, but a man, a living being.

He doesn't feel any pity for the man. Anyone caught with his pants down - or in this case, off, tossed into a pile of filth nearby - in a place like this with God only knows who for such foolish fumblings in the dark might even deserve such a fate.

"Y'should've taken th' lady someplace nice, pard. Y'might still be alive."

He places a hand on the charred remains as he speaks to the dead man, his touch detecting faint traces of heat still in the bones. Another touch to the ground next to the body finds more heat stored in the ground. This fire is old, but not so old that all heat has fled the scene with the perpetrator.

Looking on the remains, he runs his fingers over exposed bone on the chest, and over the place the heart used to be, his fingers find a jagged notch.

A blade, thrust into the chest.

"Or maybe ya wouldn't be."

Standing from the remains, he brushes his hands off, looking down at the withered ruin of what once was a man, and is now only pathetic.

"Ah'm gonna have t'meet this li'l lady."

Turning away from the corpse, he exits the alley, shaking his head.

"Someone's gotta teach her that the dead don't learn nothin'."

She'd vanished.

The trail he'd followed had been faint to begin with, and he'd had to rely on that old standby, the hunter's instinct, to follow it at times where it had vanished.

But this time, it's a bit different. Most times, the instinct, that ability to see through the eyes of the hunted, works like a charm.

But this time, he's not hunting the hunted...he's hunting the hunter...and she's not running from the hunter, but leading him on.

Even if she doesn't quite know it.

Into RhyDin...into that haven of darkness known as WestEnd...to a den where the hedonistic and lustful find their pleasure, spending their money for satisfaction of some desire or another...

...and there, it went cold.

Dammit...

The thought is part angry curse, part grudging admiration, part enthralled enjoyment.

Be careful what ya wish for...

Nothing for it, for the moment. Maybe he just needs some rest, a night under the stars, sleep and a fresh mind to come back and look again...

The raucuous cry of a crow distracts him from his thoughts. Looking up, he sees the bird perched atop a signpost, looking down along its beak at him with what he almost imagines as disdain on its features. As he looks, the bird shakes its wings and caws at him again, seeming to scold him for wanting to give up so easily.

The easy smile comes to his lips, this time not brittle or forced, but natural and easy. Animals he can relate to so much better than people - he's never heard of an animal stabbing someone in the back for a leg up or to save its own @ss.

"Look, pard, if ya know somethin' Ah don't, spit it out. Otherwise, Ah'm headed for some sleep. Ain't no use followin' the trail when Ah'm dead on m'feet 'n' endin' up like that crispy fella Ah found in th' alley."

The crow cries its hoarse cry again, giving him a look that almost seems smug, before it wings its way off into the night.

For a moment, he's tempted to just keep to his word - a night's rest and a fresh mind in the morning.

That hunter's instinct tugs at him again, though. That little voice that keeps him going on when he should be giving it up already.

"Well...hell. Time 'nuff fer sleep whem Ah'm dead, Ah guess."

The metronomic footfalls echo into the starless night as he changes his path, following in the wake of the crow's flight...

He watches as the crow wings its way off into the night, soon lost, inky black swallowing the onyx feathered shape.

The dark eyes move back to the resting form, that analytical gaze turned to new purpose, looking over the one that had been his partner in this dance of heat and death and blood. Not the usually cold, clinical eyes of analysis, nor the hungry, wanton gaze of the hunter.

Something more personal. Heat in his gaze. Seeing her there, resting as she is, there is indeed a part of him that almost aches to take the leather coat from his back and drape it over her, pick her up in his arms, carrying her somewhere far from this place, away from the death and madness and blood, away from that bass-ackwards group of animals that calls itself 'civilization.'

It's a shame, he reflects, that it's not a simpler world, where such a thing may be possible. In sleep, she's beautiful, almost serene looking, a lovely, almost peaceful sort of goddess.

For the first time, he wonders who would have called her Tempest. If he had not followed her trail himself, he would not be able to believe her capable of the acts he had seen.

Another part of him wonders just how many other hunters fell victim to that same thought.

Silently, he takes a gun from its holster, a Smith & Wesson M&P9 automatic, keeping it trained carefully on her forehead as he moves closer with silent steps. Crouching near her, he picks up a small, slim box and looks it over, before dropping it next to her hand and backing away again. Cloves.

Every moment, that gun is on her, the finger on the trigger.

He reaches into a pocket, pulling out a cigarette of his own, and a match, which he strikes against the zipper of his jacket. The flare is bright as he touches it to the tip of the smoke, shaking it out and casting it aside.

Watching her with those eyes, dark eyes warm and yet cautious, wary, unknowing what he'll see when she wakes. He moves to stand a good seven feet away, out of reach of her unless she tries to lunge, and settles to a seat, cross-legged, the gun laid in his lap as he waits for her to awaken.

He chuckles softly, the smoke a steady, slow stream from his lips and nostrils. His movements are almost lazily casual as his fingers flick ash from the brilliant red cherry at the end.

"No offense meant t'yer obvious skills of mayhem, Tempest, but Ah'm not like anyone else y'may've run into. Ah don' die easy."

He watches her as she moves, his gaze taking her in all at once as she stretches languidly, the sensuality of the movement not lost on him at all, as evidenced by the slight upward curve of appreciation on his lips, even if he's not taken in all that easily.

The dark eyes move from her to the automatic in his lap where he sits across from her. Neither hand is anywhere close to the gun, and it's display there is more by force of habit than any trepidation he might or might not feel. The distance he sits from her the same force of habit, reserved for the more dangerous prey, the rare ones that are like wild animals when they're cornered - dangerous, unpredictable, the ones that fight to the death.

The dark gaze moves up to meet hers, no evidence of even the slightest fear in his gaze. The eyes of a man that knows death. The eyes of a man that knows one day, it will come for him...and is ready for it. Another drag, slow and leisurely, is taken, the orange-red glow bringing his features from shadow, the spark seeming to catch and kindle in his eyes.

"Ah suppose, since Ah know who you are, Ah might's well put us on even terms. Name's Will Evans."

It's funny, now that he thinks about it, but he's never actually introduced himself to the person he's hunting before...but then again, he's never hunted anyone quite like this, either.

For a long moment he sits there, watching her, making no movement to come closer, nor to move away. Every now and again the glow of the cigarette lights his features, a carefully constructed poker face that gives away nothing, save perhaps the eyes. The feelings of...something, some ethereal, magnetic force he doesn't yet understand, along with that almost tender warmth beneath that he dares not give rein to.

Finally, he picks up the gun and slips it into its holster, his hand moving with the fluid, sure speed of prestidigitation. Never for even an instant do his eyes leave her.

"So...y'know why Ah'm here."

Oh, he felt that sudden rush of heat, all right.

Not that it made any difference to him. He's tracked criminals through places so hot that people had sworn they were in the depths of Hell itself, so thick it was a physical thing that near had to be pushed out of the way as one walked.

The taste of his blood upon his tongue, the temporary flaring of pain, looking up at her with her boot on his chest - no, there would be no fear in his eyes, only a simple acceptance. If he was going to die, then it was about damn time, and he'd heard it said that when he was taken to whatever life follows this one, whoever is in charge of it might want to try to keep him from getting pissed off.

Her moving away, her sentiments about all the other men are heard, yes.

And as she turns to look away, he makes his own strike.

The way he twists around and catches her legs with a scissoring motion of his own is so fast and strange that it was as if he were an animal, simply waiting for his own moment to catch her unawares, a predator merely waiting for its moment to come, and as she falls onto her back with enough force to drive the breath from her lungs, one hand reaches out to grab a booted foot and pull, even as he is moving towards her with a pouncing lunge, sliding her over the dirt and under him.

The same hand that pulls lets her booted foot go and catches one hand, then the other, pulling them up over her head as she slides beneath him and pinning them over her head as she comes to a stop. The other pulls a long, slender dagger from his boot, the point of which is suddenly pressing sharp against her jugular, the pressure stopping only a hair's breadth away from being strong enough to pierce her skin and send that gushing warmth over the sand.

The dark eyes bore down into hers, and even behind the animal ferocity that burns in them, she would be able to see that faint warmth beneath, a slower, smoldering flame that burns at the center of the fierce conflagration she just lit with a kick to his jaw.

His voice, when he speaks, is a low, hungry, angry growl, completely unlike the softer tone he had spoken with before.

"Yer an idiot, girl."

He leans down closer, the knife point steady against her throat. "Ah'm sure ya could hurt me. Ah'm sure ya could make me bleed, and Ah'm even sure ya could kill me if ya had a mind. But Ah'm just as sure that don't scare me even a little, and Ah'm damn sure ya couldn't even come close t'makin' me scream."

He growls, the expression on his face furious. Not because she hurt him or made him bleed, not because she'd threatened him. Too many have done those things for them to have an effect anymore.

What really infuriates him is her assumption.

He leans down close, almost close enough that if the situation weren't what it was, they could have kissed. Never for an instant does that knife point waver.

"But yer biggest mistake is in assumin' that ya even have a clue about who Ah am or what Ah want." That voice is low, deadly and dangerous. "Killin' ya'd just be a waste, and Ah'm not wasteful. And Ah don't do what Ah do fer th'money, Tempest." Her name comes out from his mouth in a tone of utter disgust, as if the very notion offended him. "Ah don't do it fer the victory. Ah didn' trail ya through Hell's little corner of this place just t'haul yer ass in fer the price on yer head or the reputation it might or might not get me."

The point of the dagger presses into her skin, just enough to pierce it and draw a drop of blood. Payback for the blood that he could still taste in his mouth, a tiny fraction of the price.

And just as suddenly, she's free, his weight gone as he rolls away and gains his feet. The dagger is tossed up to flip around and land point first in his hand, and with a flick of his wrist he tosses it down to land blade-first, sinking into the earth with a soft sound next to her head as he steps away. Not moving nearly so far this time, his voice is empty, smooth again, the fury gone from it as he sits a foot away, the dark eyes showing that smoldering flame in them again, rather than the wildfire before it.

"Ah told ya. Ah'm not like any o'the others ya've run into. Ya wanna kill me, go ahead an' try."

before

"Tell me something, Will. And don't go giving me one of your BS answers this time."

"Gimme a break, old man."

"No, seriously. Why do you do it' You stalk these guys and girls for weeks at a time, wearing them down, getting into their heads...you get to know them better than most of them know themselves. Why?"

"Because, old man. At th' end of all that, they're damn near always ready t' just give it up. They're tired'a bein' chased 'n' hunted down, and all they wanna do is rest. They don' wanna fight, they don' wanna run no more. Gettin' to know 'em is incidental - helps me find 'em easier. Ya happy now?"

"Well, then, I have another question for you, Will."

"Nah, old man. Y'all only get one non-BS answer for th' next year."

"Well, that's fine, because this one is just food for thought. What are you going to do when the day comes when you finally catch one of your bounties, only to find out you don't really want to take them in after all? Because it's going to happen."

now

Sure enough.

Swift and slick as anything his hands come up to seize her wrists, yanking her hands from where they are planted on the ground to support her weight over him down to end up behind the small of her back.

Her leaning so close above him make it easy for gravity to take over and bring her fully down upon him, her hair gathering around him as her lips meet his. His arms do the rest of the work, dragging the rest of her body down against his where she kneels, moulding her body to his.

That kiss is open, hungry and fierce, with every bit as much heat as what she'd subjected him to the first time she'd had him on his back. One of his legs moves up and plants a boot firmly against the ground as he pushes her up and over, his hands still pinning hers behind her back as they roll so he is the one on top of her.

Not for so much as the space of time it takes for an eyelid to flutter do his lips leave hers during this maneuver, a low, nearly bestial growl of pleasure and satisfaction rumbling in his throat as he tastes her lips, her blood mingled with his on her tongue adding a richer, more exciting note to the press of lips, the tangling of tongues, the brush of teeth.

But there's always that irritating need for air that sends its signals to his lungs, and as much as he would like to linger in that kiss, survival has to take precedence.

For the moment.

His lips move from hers by a fraction as he takes a deep breath, his hands still pinning hers behind her back, his body now pressed firmly against hers, holding her to the earth beneath them.

"If it's proof yer wantin' darlin', I'll give ya a few fine points t'consider." His lips brush hers with a touch that is almost tender, and yet still with that trembling touch of animal hunger in them as his low, growling voice rumbles. "Yer still breathin'. Yer not in cuffs. And for the final, an' most importan' note." The dark eyes bore into hers as his voice grows softer, that smoldering heat easily seen in them. "This was th' reason Ah wanted t'track ya down in th' firs' place...Ah could give a flyin' rat's f**k that yer wanted or what it's for."