"Even those who are pure of heart, and say their prayers at night, can become a wolf, when the wolfsbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright."

-Gypsy poem

Asleep in the forest.

Tossing.

Turning.

Enraptured by a dream, the dark promise of a Seer.

A vision from the darkest depths of imagination. He in his greatest, most powerful form, a strange, abominable hybrid of man and beast, not just the strongest...but the most vicious, the hardest to control.

The moon is full and bright, a milky-white orb high above. The sounds of crickets, the night creatures, the owls calling to that breathless moon above ring in his ears, the nocturnal sounds of the forest...but he pays them no heed.

He can feel the blood thunder in his ears as he approaches the woman. Dark hair tangled with white, brilliance contrasting with darkness.

As if in metaphor to his own soul, conflicted, savage and civil, man and animal, in this form mixed into one.

Both sides are enraptured by the sinful delight of smooth, sweeping curves that would make Boticelli weep for joy, bathed in moonlight, beckoning to him from her place near a large oak tree.

Her form is adorned with tattoos, as well as a sparkle of fire from the shallow poool of her navel, but nothing else. Her onyx-colored eyes draw him in closer.

He can feel the animal need of both beast and man rising within, blood rushing to his groin, engorging that organ with its heat, the object of lustful desire its target.

He approaches low, giving into the bestial nature at first, crawling on four limbs in a slow, stalking motion, muscles seen to be rippling under thick, coarse fur as he approaches. Silver fur reflects the moonlight as he approaches her, surrounding him with an aura shining like a precious metal.

As he closes, he sniffs her. Skin like moon-soaked ivory would know the cool, moist touch of a nose as he moves from her legs, up her body, warm, moist breath on her skin as he takes in her scent. The feathery touch of whiskers trailing along her skin as he moves ever upward, savoring the musky scent of her. His lips find her throat, and thick fingers trail up her legs to find her warm core, moist and waiting for him.

And that is when the animal takes over.

He pushes her up against the tree roughly, lifting her off of her feet. That hardened, thick core of him is inside her, sheathed in heat in a single, swift movement, and as her legs wrap around him and draw him close.

Human and man work in concert now, working with her. It is a scene that few darkly gifted, erotic artists could appreciate, but all the more so for that.

In the midst of their ecstatic union, he feels himself...changing. The man, taking over even in the throes of animalistic passion as they are united, reasserts himself, even as they couple again. For now, there is more to this union, something that surfaces within his soul...

He comes awake suddenly, eyes wide and open, bathed in sweat.

He hadn't known he was dreaming...even now, he swears he feels the touch of her hands on his skin, the cries of lust and passion she had uttered as he buried his length in her again and again.

Her words had haunted him as they parted...and now these dreams.

What's happening to him?

Everywhere. Nightmares and Dreams. Visions and Labyrinths.

Every hour on the hour waking up. Thinking of that which had changed. The finding again of Silverlana. The Angel's demure knowledge of her sister's genuine growing affection towards a Spider and a Wolf.

Passion and sweat lingered as a harmony of vivid aroma in her room. Permeating as thick addiction. It made her lightheaded, even if her desire was wrought by her own hands. Self induced.

Affection. It always had been easier for Silverlana. Then again the Angel was meant to feel, the Witch meant to See.

See them leave. Watch them walk away.

Her room was midnight dark. The moon tucked away by black velvet curtains.

Frowning the wispy thin material of ghost pale clung to her skin as she stepped out on to the balcony.

Fresh Air was needed.

Time and time again they would leave her behind. It was her undoing. Giver of Gifts. Beautiful Evil.

Perhaps the Mistress of Sin and Twilight had planned it that way.

Leave Pandora to indulge in the thick of sin, the rough of desire, the quick wanton burn of lust but left love to elude.

Would the same risk be there for her sister?

Hand rubbed through her hair, pallor white twisting the ivory and black, that yin and yang paradox through her fingers. Spilling like snow flurries and oil touched rain.

They would take what they needed. In the end...

She would be left behind.