Firefly Glen but when i go to sleep at night, don't you call my name

She was a hell-raiser, a heartrender, a succubus given mortal form. Riley regarded her in the clinical manner of a bar-scanner inspecting code. She was too quick for him -- not in speed, but in mental dexterity -- and he knew when to fold his cards and when to fan them.

He would never have any hope of matching the sulky ease of her wit, nor the sardonic way her mind seemed to easily wrap around him -- as if he were a doe-eyed newborn hare, easy game, easy time. She would play with him like a cat, and once she was tired of her batting and grew bored of the gradually listless form between her paws, she would skulk off to her next victim.

Riley did not quite understand what she meant. His gaze flickered over her flatly; not in creepy observance, but in measurement: was she safe? (No) Was she hurt? (Yes) Was she dangerous? (YES__)

He was quickly going underwater. Now she was joking -- was he the brunt of the joke?

He gulped, looking uphill at the mountain in the distance she was referring to. They would be no help here.

Now they were on the subject of moose. His ears pulled back in marked confusion, his tail sagged. Moose, when he hadn't detected a hint of their trace here? It seemed improbable, but he had better manners than to call her a liar. At least her final question was direct enough Riley could grapple it, though his means of processing was by no means swift. She'd have time to grab a Happymeal, send a fax, and fire off a few flippant work emails ('Per my last email Don, the spreadsheet already addresses your concerns in your prior correspondence...') before she had her answer.

"Because I don't understand your intentions." Riley was ever direct, even if his thoughts resembled scrambled eggs on a 500F pan. "You were lurking. Are you dangerous?"