Chapter Three: Soul

There's nothing but the dryness of his throat. It's all-consuming, the only thought that fills his mind, so deeply ingrained into his being that his teeth ache. He can't remember how to open his eyes, move his body, do anything but lay there and wish for something to quench his thirst. He breathes through clenched teeth, panting like a dog in the sun, as if the musty air could soothe the rasp of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A door opens and shuts, a lawnmower roars dully, a newscaster drones on a television; none of it matters, doesn't register as something out of the ordinary. Beneath it all, there's a rythmic thumping, layered one over the other over the other, the delicious sound of rushing water. Instinctively, he jerks forward, toward that beautiful source of fluid.

He doesn't notice the awkward pull of his muscles or the way his hair is matted to the back of his head until he tries to sit up, feeling something shift around his wrists, like manacles of fire. Something between a cry and a snarl tears itself from his throat, slipping past his barred teeth like a knife through cell bars, and he sinks back down onto the mattress. Footsteps sound somewhere below, drawing ever closer, bringing one of those beating hearts for him to drink dry. The thought clatters through him– a heartbeat, that's what he was hearing, what made his mouth water–but it's gone before he can grasp it, before he can use it like a lifeline to pull himself from that endless pit of thirst. A door opens, bringing with it a gust of cool air and something warm, alive. Something that comes up the stairs, something with a scent that makes his insides flip with a mix of hunger and disgust. They step closer, and the thirst releases it's hold on him enough to allow him to finally snap his eyes open.

She's small, in every sense of the word. Short, skinny, almost child-like. Well, except for the way she carries herself; hands on her hips, the muscles of her legs apparent even from under her well-worn jeans, and the totally unimpressed look she levels him with as he bares his teeth at her. He tugs at his restraints, hisses at the burn, but doesn't look away.

If she'd just get a little closer…

She purses her lips, watching him for a moment, as if searching for something, but if she finds whatever it is, she doesn't show it. She simply turns away and ducks behind a stack of dusty boxes, rummages around in something out of his line of sight, but the smell still hits him like a train. Again, a growl rumbles in his chest, something low and guttural and feral. The girl comes back, bags of deep, delicious red cradled in her hands; smelling far more appetizing than she does. She stops a foot away from the bed, snaps her fingers in his face when he doesn't look away from the bags in her other hand.

"Ground rules: I'll feed you. You don't bite me. If you try anything, I'll stake you before you get your weird little shark teeth anywhere near me." Something in him bristles at the challenge; something that luckily also gets beaten back by the thirst. "Don't fuck this up, and maybe you'll be unchained by nightfall." She pauses, studies him again, and drops into a squat at his bedside. Two of the bags are set on the floor at her feet, and the other, she carefully shakes out, thin fingers smoothing out the top to press the lingering blood down, and she draws a pair of kitchen shears from her back pocket to cut the corner off. He thinks he might be drooling, probably is, but can't find a single damn to give about it. She holds the bag over his chest, just far enough out of reach of his begging mouth, that he almost growls at her again, until he realizes it was just a ploy to keep him distracted enough that she could slip her hand under his head to support him, without tempting him to try to take a chunk out of her wrist.

Carefully, she guides that spout to his mouth and lets it pour, blinking in surprise as he greedily bites down and drinks deeply, swallowing it down in great gulps, eyes closed in rapture as it finally scratches that itch. All too soon, he's sucking on air, the plastic crinkling in protest, and before he, too, can protest, she's replacing it with another. She didn't open this one the way she had before, and part of him relishes in the feeling of his teeth sinking through the plastic, of the carnal pleasure of tearing into the skin of that forbidden fruit. He sinks further into the mattress, relaxing as that terrible hunger subsides, leaving him finally in control of himself once more, if a little mellowed by the satisfied haze settling into his bones. Once he finishes off that bag too, she sets it aside with the other, and holds up the third and final bag, arching a blonde brow in question. Part of him cringes at how eagerly he nods, but the second his teeth pierce that plastic, he couldn't care less. A drop of blood slithers from the corner of his mouth, sliding down to trail along his jaw before dripping onto the thin pillow beneath his head. The girl grabs the corner of the blanket and swipes it away, dutifully drawing the bag away as he releases it with a gasp, sitting it upright before the rest could spill.

She quickly snatches back the hand that'd been supporting his head–not that he'd try to get at her now; he felt pleasantly full, as if he'd just had a big Thanksgiving meal. He watches her through half-lidded eyes as she rocks to her feet, rolling up the top of the third bag and ducking behind those boxes to put it back where she got it. When she finishes, she stands near the foot of his bed, near the gleaming chain that burned the flesh of his ankle, her arms crossed and hip cocked. Like she was waiting on something. Waiting on him.

Soul watches her in turn, trying to sort through the mess of thoughts that assault him, now that the all-consuming thirst has finally left him fully. The lingering tang of iron on his tongue makes his stomach threaten to revolt, despite that new thing in his mind telling him that nothing was out of the ordinary. Despite it, he still turns as far his restraints will allow before gagging, throat working as he heaves, but nothing comes up. She lurches forward, pressing on his shoulder to push him back against the bed. "Easy, easy." Her tone is gentle, totally at odds at how she'd spoken to him before. He lets her push him back, sinking into the mattress, still sick to his stomach but unable to empty its contents. She smooths his hair back away from his face, brows drawn. Soul pants, trying to force air into his lungs, but there's no relief, like he doesn't even need the air. Her hand pushes through his hair, nails scraping his scalp–he thinks she pauses to toss aside a leaf she found there–but nonetheless, the action soothes him.

Slowly, he calms.

Slowly, he can come back to himself enough to meet her gaze, and give a shallow nod to tell her he was alright; for now.

She backs off with a nod of her own, crossing her arms over her chest as she retreats to the foot of the bed; as if his panic was just a ruse to get her in biting-range. Which is ridiculous, the idea that he'd bite her; he's not a vampire or something. Wait. He runs his tongue across his teeth, as if he could confirm the ridiculous suspicion swirling in his mind, but with teeth already unnaturally sharp, there wasn't anything to be found. His hands fidget, fingers reaching up to wrap around the chains–another thing that he knows he should be freaking out about, but with the whole everything to choose from, it's getting kind of hard to pick a starting point–but he quickly decides against it as his skin sizzles and burns.

She watches his hands impassively, back to her previous demeanor, green eyes carefully bored as she says, "Yeah, I wouldn't suggest doing that." The sarcasm throws him, the remark so at odds with torrent of shit going on in his head, that it actually makes all of his thoughts screech to a stop, as if trying to figure out how a dash of normalcy could possibly fit into his current experience. Whatever look he was giving her, apparently it was enough to spur her into tossing him a line. She sighs, pulls a little wooden stool from somewhere behind her, settles herself on it and says, "I'm Maka, and I already know your name, Solomon."

"Soul." He corrects weakly, something in his chest constricting uncomfortably until she holds up his wallet, his initials plain as day on the front. He can smell the leather, can see the stitching that's starting to wear down on the bottom corner, right in the fold of it. He knows that's not right, the clarity of his sight, but pairing it with the burning of the chains and the whole blood thing, all signs point to...something that rhymes with camp-fire, and he's just not willing to accept something that insane.

She merely dips her head in acknowledgement, starts staring him down again in a way that makes skin try to crawl away to avoid it. It's like sitting in the principal's office. When he doesn't say anything for another minute, she sighs again. "Alright, obviously you're not the talkative type, but how about you tell me what you think is going on right now, and I'll tell you how close you are. Sound good?"

Like playing a game of warm-and-cold. He wanted to laugh, but the more he thought about it, the more he thought it was a good idea. Sure, he might be murdered soon, but at least crazy questions weren't off the table. "Am I going to die soon?"

Her eyes go wide, and he immediately regrets asking, but it's the first thing to blurt past his lips. She's quiet for a long moment, and he half-expects her to get angry, or maybe reassure him that she won't hurt him (wishful thinking on his part, perhaps), but instead she just laughs. He startles, tugging at his restraints in the process, and she clamps her hand over her mouth as she shoots him an apologetic look. Maka clears her throat and waves her hand, "Sorry, um. You're not going to, uh, die soon."

The emphasis on 'soon' has him worrying. "What do you mean not soon?"

She grimaces, the corner of her mouth tugging down, and she scratches at the inside of her wrist absently. "Well, I guess it depends on your definition of dead. 'Cause if you classify someone without a pulse as dead, then, man, do I have some news for you."

What the fuck does that even mean?

When he asks her as much, she just gives him a pointed look, brows raised expectantly. Soul shakes his head in confusion, or maybe denial. That's ridiculous! Of course he has a heartbeat!

...right?

He pauses, holds his breath, listens hard; trying to find that telltale thump-thump-thump in his chest, the slight movement of a beating heart, but he just...can't find it. His face crumples, and he thinks he feels another wave of panic begin to sink into his bones.

Jesus, what did he get himself into?

The look Maka gives him is somewhere between sympathy and something bordering on impatient acceptance. As if she felt bad about the situation he found himself in, but not enough to stop herself from quietly wishing he'd get over it. Luckily, she takes pity on him, and the impatience dissipates; the sympathy overriding. "Look, um. I know you're probably freaking out right now, so just lemme go ahead and say what you're thinking." She pauses and wets her lips, shifting on the stool. Despite the uncomfort apparent in her body language, she meets his gaze head-on, green eyes unflinching. "You're a vampire." His breath catches, but she plows ahead anyway. "Believe it or not, but the fact of the matter is you just downed two-and-a-half pints of blood and these silver chains are currently burning your very inhuman skin." She flicks his ankle before resting her elbows on her knees, fingers lacing together as she stares him down, the muscle in her jaw fluttering as she clenches it. "Vampires, werewolves, witches," she counts them off on her fingers, "they're all real."

Part of him wants to make some joke, deflect whatever the hell is going on here just like he does anything else that makes him uncomfortable, and a larger part of him kinda wants to just sit down a cry for his mother because there's no fucking way this is happening. Instead of doing either of those things, he swallows the lump in his throat, steels himself. Maka didn't look crazy, didn't have that crazy-person look in her eyes. She just looked tired, maybe a little annoyed, but something told him that her ire wasn't directed at him. He looks her over, studies her face for a moment, finds that the hard set of her jaw and the steady look she levels him with forces the air back into his lungs. "You're serious? This isn't a fucked up joke?"

"'Fraid not." She huffs a laugh, plants the palms of her hands on her knees as she pushes to her feet. She grabs a set of heavy leather gloves from the old nightstand by the head of the bed. She pauses for a second, pulling the gloves on carefully, methodically; eyeing him out of the corner of her eye as she grabs the dangling end of a silver chain. "Look...I don't want to have to leave you chained up here, but I also can't have you freaking out and attacking me or my

people."

Soul catches her meaning. Best behavior, or she's going to make good on her promise to stake him. He doesn't trust his voice not to shake, isn't even sure what to say to convey just how clearly he understands without blubbering, so he settles for just holding her gaze and nodding once.

She studies him for a moment longer, as if measuring him up, before she moves to undo the silver bindings at his wrists and ankles, wincing at the way stringy bits of skin and flesh cling to the chainlinks. Unbound and careful of his wounds–which were quickly closing, his skin knitting itself back together–he sits up, planting bare feet against the dusty wooden floor. Maka dumps the chains off In a corner, sheds the gloves, extends a calloused hand. "Welcome to the club, kid."

Turns out, Maka was actually really nice.

Well, aside from the whole bit where she let him stick his hand underneath the thick curtain she'd hung up over the tiny window, but even that was more just to let him learn for himself that sunlight wasn't a joke. He thinks that maybe she knew he needed to confirm for himself that he really was a...anyway. Besides that, she'd sat in the attic with him for almost two hours, answered as many of his questions as she could. Silver was no joke, garlic and crucifixes were a hoax, only old mirrors wouldn't show his reflection, and, honestly, she wasn't sure if he could turn into a bat or not. They'd covered all the generics, Soul yawning widely all the while. Once he'd taken a moment to collect his thoughts, maybe gearing up for another round of questioning, she'd stood up with a crack of her back and silenced him with a wave of her hand.

"Look, kid, I know you probably have a lot more questions, but you should grab a little more sleep before night fall." She hooks her foot around one of the stool's legs and slings it haphazardly to the foot of the bed, slips those heavy gloves back on and carefully drapes the chains over her arm. "I've got some stuff to take care of while there's still daylight, but I'll come back up once the sun sets, okay?" He nods faintly, watching her leave before flopping back down on the mattress. He stares up at the cobwebbed ceiling, tracing the lines in the grain of the old wood with his enhanced vision. If he listened, he could hear Maka clattering around downstairs—the scuff of her boots against the floor, the clank of dishes as they sink into a water-filled sink, the..beating of four separate hearts. There are two people other than Maka in this house, the other one outside; the one closest to Maka, their heartbeats near synched. He closes his eyes and wills himself to stop hearing everything, before he loses his damned mind. Instead, he carefully lays his hand across his throat, feeling for the carnage that must've been there not long ago.

He hadn't asked Maka about it; how she found him or if she knew who did this to him. He was too afraid to hear the answer, perhaps too afraid to be met with more questions. It didn't help that his memories of the ordeal were...foggy. Muddled with fear and blood-loss. Even his other memories, the human ones, were out of focus. Not that it made it hard to remember; just that he couldn't see the finer details of his mother's face, or the exact smell of his father's favored cologne. It's like he'd had a film over his senses for the past twenty-three years, and only now it had been lifted. Soul takes a deep breath, presses his fingers into the skin of his throat, half-searching for a pulse.

He didn't disbelieve Maka, or even his own experiences thus far. He just...needed an extra confirmation. That last piece of the puzzle to tell him he wasn't absolutely losing his mind. His hand stays perfectly still against the perfectly smooth skin of his neck, not so much as a scratch on the surface or a flutter beneath. He heaves a sigh and rolls over, trying his best to get some sleep; like Maka suggested.

It's just...even with his enhanced hearing, the word is a lot quieter without the beating of his own heart.

He hears Maka stomping toward the attic before she even makes it to the stairs. He's up and out of the bed inhumanly fast, slipping his hand underneath that thick curtain, breathing a sigh of relief when his skin doesn't immediately burn. He twitches it back and peers out into the night, breath catching at the millions of stars blotting the sky. It's unlike anything he's ever seen; the moon bright and waning, reflecting off the glass-like surface of the pond sitting peacefully down below, the wooded hills in the distance lit up in an eerie glow as they roll down and down and down until they spill to the edge of the pond and the yard beyond. He presses his forehead to the glass in an attempt to look closer, see more.

The clearing of Maka's throat behind him nearly makes him jump from his skin; he whirls around, winding up half-tangled in the curtain and desperately trying to keep his cool as he claws it away from his face. The fabric tears like tissue paper, scraps of it left nailed to the wall as the rest hangs in shreds from his hands. Maka merely raises a brow as he gives her an apologetic smile, carefully setting the ball of ruined curtain on a nearby tub of what looks to be Christmas decorations, as if afraid of causing more damage.

"Did I forget to mention super strength?"

"You forgot to mention super strength."

Maka sighs and turns on her heel with a jerk of her head for him to follow her. She thumps down the stairs with an old familiarity, skipping the second to last stair without breaking her stride. Soul hesitates before skipping it too, brows furrowed. "That one's broken. Been meanin' to fix it, but," she shrugs. He thinks she might've said something else, but then second he steps into the light of the hallway, he's walking with blinders on.

It's like...experiencing a whole new world.

Sure, it might just be a regular old hallway, but...there's a little hole in the wall, about waist-level, with little red fibers caught in the edges of the drywall. There are little black scuff marks streaking the golden wood floor, the majority of them leading into a room dead center of the hall. At the topmost border of the wall, where it meets the ceiling, he can see where the toffee-brown paint barely covers the old wallpaper beneath; whoever painted it unable to reach the very top. They pass by ten doors–a few mismatched, one covered in stickers and posters–before winding down the zig-zag staircase, a motley of pictures in a variety of frames littering the wall all the way down. Soul spots some old and new, some in color and others faded in black-and-white, showing everything from parties to holidays to snowball fights to swimming in the summer. They hit the bottom of the stairs, and it's then that he's assaulted by a mix of smells: something meaty, greasy, something earthy and herby, and something...pissed off? That was the only way he knew how to describe it. Except, no. That's not right. Not pissed but, defensive, almost.

Soul whips around, finds a man with bright blue hair seated at the counter, a half-eaten plate of food sitting in front of him, his fork clutched in one hand, like he might use it as a weapon if given half a chance. He swallows thickly, throws a glance at Maka, hoping she might be able to save him from death by utensil. She looks between the two of them and rolls her eyes. "Christ. Okay." She plasters on a smile, holds out her hands in front of her like she's showcasing the both of them for the other. "Soul, this is Blake. Blake, this is Soul. Say 'hello'."

Soul says, "Hi." At the same time Blake says, "We've met."

Which, startles, Soul, to say the least. The surprise on his face is apparent, and Blake merely stabs a chunk of potato as Maka explains softly; "He's one of the people who found you." Oh. Soul doesn't know what to say. Do you thank someone for that? For not letting you turn into a monster by yourself? Do you apologize? For taking up their time and inconveniencing them? He wants to say it's the latter, probably because anxiety, because no son of Fletcher and Marilla Evans would ever deign to apologize to anyone who didn't have a bank account the size of Spain or govern an entire country. But, before he can flounder for too long, Blake simply nods at him; a slight, acknowledging tilt of his head, and Soul can safely do the same without managing to shove his foot in his mouth.

Maka shakes her head, moves into the kitchen area without looking to see if Soul follows her. She scoops up an empty plate off the dingy table, turns and dumps it in the sink. "So, game plan," she says without looking at either of them, tidying up the kitchen in practiced movements. "Soul, I'll finish up giving you a little tour, introduce you to a couple more people, and then I figure you can get a shower and some new clothes on because, sorry, but you kinda stink." He...can't deny that. He smells like something died, which...yeah. Anyway. She glances at him as she swipes some crumbs off the counter and into her hand, pulling out a drawer with the toe of her shoe and dusting her hands off in the trash bin inside. "Sound good? After that, we'll just take whatever else comes one step at a time." He nods, and she turns her attention to Blake. "While we do that, can y'all do me a favor and get Soul a spot set up down in the basement? Last thing we need is a stray bit of sunlight sneakin' in the attic while he sleeps." Soul flinches involuntarily. Blake just grunts something unintelligible around a mouthful of food, but Maka takes it like she understands anyway. "Speaking of, where are the others?"

Blake swallows, waves his fork. "Sid took your old man and Jackie into town, said somethin' about making sure the others were okay and stayin' put." He scoops the last of his food in his mouth and slides off the stool, walking around the counter to drop his dishes in the sink. "Stein's 'round here somewhere."

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Maka says almost reflexively, and Blake swallows obediently, looking sheepish.

"Sorry. Anyway, last I saw, he went outside." He shrugs, and goes to the living room, dutifully ignoring Soul all the while, and flops on the couch. He kicks his feet up over the back and starts flicking through the channels casually, as if the tension stringing every line of his body isn't blatantly obvious. Soul knows he's watching him, even if his eyes aren't actually looking at him.

There's something off about these people.

Not...not necessarily in a bad way, in fact they seem perfectly normal and nice, but there's something blanketing this entire experience. Something about them taking all of this in stride, to the point of being prepared for it, that tips him off. They have to be supernatural, right? No regular human is just going to keep pure silver chains and blood bags just lying around. Unless he managed to get himself into Van Helsing's great-great-grandchild's house, which, going by his luck, is perfectly possible. He would be the only guy to get turned into a vampire, only to be saved and subsequently staked by some legendary hunter or some bullshit equivalent.

Luckily, before he could spiral further, Maka finishes up in her tidying and plants her hands on her hips. "Okay, so, this is pretty much it." She gestures to the room around her.

Admittedly, it's not much. At least, not by the illustrious Evans' family standards, but it's cozy. Functional. The floors are wooden and worn, creaking in places when Maka had moved around the room, and the walls are painted a light sort of olive green. The counter starts in an L-shape, a bar-space that turns and presses against the wall; a window above the sink that looks out over the yard, a glimmer of the pond off to the side and a clear view of a shed a few paces away from the porch. A foot away sits the old stove, a cast-iron skillet sitting on the backburner. Beside the stove, a door breaks up the counter space and leads out onto the wrap-around porch; then there's cluttered counter and the fridge, beside which is another door leading to what looks to be the mud room, and another that he assumes leads to the basement. All around, there are little knick-knacks and baubles, herbs and flowers hung up to dry and fresh vegetables piled in baskets or strung out over any available space.

It's clean, but not organized; controlled chaos.

The living room isn't much different; two couches are shoved nearly-together, with a small pile of bean bag chairs at one end and a pair of mismatched recliners at the other, an oversized chaise lounge sitting directly opposite and a fairly large flat screen hung catty-corner to it all. Behind the couches, the front door and a line of wooden pegs on the wall piled with jackets and coats and hats, an open archway leading to what looked to be the dining room proper. None of the furniture matched, but it looked comfortable, cozy. A room made for frequent use, for comfort, and to accommodate a lot of people. Everything about this house would send his mother into a tizzy, but Soul loved it. It wasn't made to be picture perfect and ready for a photoshoot, it was a house meant to be lived in; it was like nothing he's ever experienced.

"It's beautiful," he breathes without thinking, prompting a raised brow from Maka and an amused snort from Blake. He waits for the heat to rush to his face, for his ears to burn red, but it doesn't come. Still, he thinks his whole deer-in-the-headlights stare is enough to show his embarrassment.

Maka simply laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners with her smile. "It's a mess, is what it is. But, thanks." She shakes her head, like she couldn't believe him, and heads toward the front door. "Follow me, the only thing left is the property, then you can get all cleaned up and," she flaps her hand; she doesn't know where to go from there any more than he does. It's kinda comforting, knowing that they're all just making up as they go along. Maka flicks the bottom of Blake's foot as she passes, tugs open the door, and holds the screen door until Soul passes, then allows it to slam shut behind them. She clunks down the stairs, the thick sole of her boots heavy on the old wood, and he follows her dutifully.

They stop in the middle of the yard, about twenty feet from the house and the pond in either direction. "Okay, so." She claps her hands, the sound echoing across the empty grounds, interrupted only by the crickets chirping. "We have about twenty acres here, give or take, and all of it is surrounded by a barrier, so don't get any ideas." She gives him a pointed look, and he scoffs under his breath.

"First of all, where would I even go?" She shrugs, but doesn't seem fazed. "Second, what kind of barrier?"

"Magic. I barely understand the details, let alone enough to explain it to you, but just know that you can't get out, and if you try, it won't be pretty." She isn't unkind, and it's not a threat; just stating a fact. Frankly, he doesn't want to know what'll happen if he tries to go out of bounds, but at the same time, he doesn't have anywhere to go, except maybe his shitty little apartment. Even then, he's not about to try to stage a jail-break just to go sit in his apartment and try to figure out this vampire shit on his own–he'd probably starve to death or wind up attacking someone, and neither option sounds particularly fun.

"Okay, sounds good." He pauses, bites his lip. It's all beautiful, for sure, and part of him just wants to take off into woods and see what all he can do. Can he punch a tree apart with his barefists? Run faster than a bullet? Is being a vampire just like the movies, or is he just a nocturnal dweeb with an even bigger sun-allergy who's permanently stuck on a liquid diet? Soul shakes himself out of his little reverie, and instead turns his attention back to Maka. "So, uh, you said you had other people for me to meet?"

Maka starts walking, the dew dappling the freshly-mown grass making the toes of her boots glisten in the moonlight, and he falls into step with her; a slight breeze ghosting down off the hills and rippling over the surface of the lake. He doesn't shiver, though he knows that the air is cold, but neither does Maka. For someone so small, he'd think she'd be shaking in her boots. She clears her throat before speaking. "Yeah. Stein is around here somewhere, and you've already met Blake, but there's more than that." She stops abruptly and looks him dead in the eye. He freezes accordingly, feels his spine try to worm its way out of his skin under the weight of her stare. "This is where my family lives. I've kept them away since you've arrived, for their safety as much as for your own, but they'll be returning soon. You need to understand that, if you do anything to harm any of them," She steps forward until she's nearly nose-to-nose with him, making him cower, despite being at least a foot shorter than he is. Her eyes burn with a fire he's never seen before, and suddenly he's assessing her in a new light (not that he knows jack-shit about fighting, so even if she did come at him, the best he could do is lay down and hope for the best). "I will tear you apart, piece by piece, with my teeth." Soul swallows thickly as she backs off, loosing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. She flashes him a smile, "Understood?"

He nods frantically. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Above them, the sky shimmers and dances in a wave of blue sparks, like fireworks raining over a clear umbrella. Soul watches, eyes wide, knowing his heart would be pounding a million miles an hour if it could still beat, but Maka is wholly unconcerned, not even sparing a glance upwards. "Ah, that must be Sid. You'll meet him tonight, too, before you meet everyone else." She moves to continue wandering across the lawn, headed toward the dirt road snaking from the woods, but Soul latches onto her arm before she can move too far. Maka whips around so fast he's surprised she didn't hurt herself, her teeth bared like an animal. "What the hell—"

He loosens his grip, just a little, but doesn't take his eyes off the woodline. "Do you hear that?"

Maka's face softens, teeth hidden behind her lips as she purses them, brows drawn together. "I told you Sid was on his way back." She says carefully, as if he hadn't been listening to her before. He shakes his head.

"No, it's not a car." His new hearing might fuck him up emotionally, but he's not stupid. It sounds like...running. Feet on the ground, digging into soft dirt. Not human, too many legs. He breathes deep, trying to see if he can smell anything, feels the action tickle something primal in the back of his mind, but there's too much for him to parse through; Maka and the lake and the house and everything. "It's...an animal?"

Maka seems to relax, his hand still wrapped around her bicep. "Yeah, we have those." She laughs through her nose, shakes her head. "Ain't a town for about ten miles either way; once you reach the main road, that is."

"No, Maka, it's not—" He tries to explain, tell her about this gut feeling that whatever it is, it's coming for them, but before he can, it explodes out of the treeline. Huge, a brown so dark it almost looks black, and almost as tall as he is; he almost doesn't recognize it as a wolf. His heart leaps to his throat, feels his muscles come alive in the face of danger. It barrels down the yard at them, closing in quick, and when Maka doesn't move, Soul assumes she's frozen in fear.

So, he does what any good person would do. He makes a break for it, tugging Maka along after him.

Except, she doesn't budge. In fact, she digs her heels in, and just before he loses his grip on her, he feels her arm sort of...pop. Her pained yelp echoes across the lawn, and what happens next would've made him shit his pants if he were still human.