Phoenix Maplewood bad moon rising

He is not a believer in fate, and he does not believe that everything happens for a reason, but he cannot help but be intrigued by the woman that emerges from the bloodbaked shadows like an insidious fable.  Her pelt is black as blood.  He meets her gilded gaze as she seems to eagerly come to him, and he holds it as she falters back.

Woman, he says with a voice like shards of moonlight, deep and alluring and dangerous, come closer.  His words are not demanding, but they are direct and he blinks, runs his tongue over the tooth that hangs a little too long as he waits as patiently as he can muster.