I heard him before I saw him, whistling a tune I imagined he hoped would rival the song of the birds. I stopped running when I heard him, barely disturbing the soil beneath my feet with my sudden stop, and tilted my head to the side, ear to the sky, listening. His pitch was off, his tone was harsh, and he sounded like nothing from the forest. But the tune was familiar, haunting. Almost like something from a dream. Almost like something I had know once, long before I'd been tormented by the fire.

The thought was jarring, painful, and nearly forced the air from my still inflated lungs. So I pushed it away and merged with the wind, letting the fire in my throat choose my path. I came upon him just a few moments later.

He was a bear of a man, tall and broad with a full, black beard and skin the colour of the earth. I ignored the burning in my throat and stopped short of his clearing, watching, listening from the shadows of the forest.

My eyes missed nothing as I watched the man work, erecting a structure that billowed in the wind and looked far less than sturdy. While he worked, while his muscles bulged and flexed in a way that stoked the fire in my throat, he continued his song, continued doing his best to mimic the birds. His melody was torture, lovely and painful simultaneously, causing an ache in my chest that I couldn't help but scratch. I found myself torn between charging in to shut him up or standing still and enduring the flames to listen.

I was in the clearing with him before I realized I'd decided to silence him, and pulled myself to a stop just inside the tree line. His song cut off as soon as he sensed my presence.

"Well hey there," he said, dropping the wood he'd been stacking and springing to his feet with a grace that surprised me. "My name's Dave. Are you camping out here too?" I looked at his hand outstretched to shake, surprised to realize I knew his words as well as his gesture. I didn't return his movement and he dropped his hand with a lift of his shoulders, returning to his knees by his small stack of wood.

My eyes tracked his every movement, the song that had tortured me just moments ago far from my mind as I listened to the rhythmic sound of his blood. I couldn't help but lick my lips.

"There aren't too many campers out this way this time of year," he said, drawing my attention from his blood. I focused on his words but was still acutely aware of the pounding rhythm in the background. I could almost feel my mouth watering at the sound. "I thought it was just gonna be me and my wife. Are you out here with a group?" He glanced back at me as if he expected an answer, dipping in fingers into his front pocket and coming out with something small and brightly coloured. He turned it in his hand and it snicked, then snicked again, then ignited.

Fire.

I hissed and stepped away, the fire in my throat and the promise of blood the only thing keeping me anywhere near the flame. My body still remembered the burning, the eternal torment, and I wanted nothing to do with the fire.

"Whoa, hey," the man said, dropping the fire starter on the ground and returning to his feet. I couldn't tear my gaze from its neon casing, almost expecting it to burst into flame any second, and the man ducked his head to meet my gaze. I reluctantly redirected my attention. "There's nothing to be afraid of. It won't hurt you."

I kept my eyes on his, my face blank as he scanned my body. His eyes widened as he took me in and I studied him, trying to dissect his expression. He looked . . . surprised. Like he was seeing something he wasn't expecting. I let my own gaze flicker down before returning to his face. I thought I looked fine but didn't really know what I was looking for.

"Your clothes," he choked out a moment later, sounding half strangled. "Are you hurt? Do you need help?" I looked down again, taking more time to examine myself. I wasn't entirely sure what he was asking. I had been hurt, by the fire, but that was on the inside. My clothes didn't burn, my clothes looked fine. They were mostly intact from what I could tell, and didn't look much different from what the woman had been wearing. And the fire was out now, I didn't need help.

I looked back at the man, taking in his new expression. He looked . . . horrified, scared almost. The blood began to pulse through him with more fury and the fire in my throat flared. I felt the corners of my mouth raise in a little smile. I understood now.

"Blood," I breathed without thought, the fact that I could speak shocking the hell out of me. Apparently I knew this dance even if I didn't realize it.

"B-blood," he stuttered, eyes flickering down to my body. "Shit."

He started walking then, pacing in front of his pile of wood, back and forth, back and forth. My eyes tracked his movement as I focused on the sound of his blood. The fire in my throat was reaching an unbearable level when he stopped and turned to face me. "My wife will be back soon. Jenny went to get some more wood. When she gets back we'll take you wherever you need to go. The hospital, the police, wherever." He looked uncertain, a little frazzled, and dragged a hand through his hair in his agitation, standing it all up on end.

I stilled completely, watching him fidget.

That movement. I'd seen it before. There was no way I could have, but I knew it; it was as familiar to me as anything even though it wasn't quite right.

I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes, trying to solve the puzzle. He froze under my scrutiny, fingers still buried in his hair.

It was the hair, that was the problem. The hair shouldn't have been so dark, it shouldn't have been so short. I didn't know what it should have been, but I knew it wasn't right. The ache in my chest, the one I'd felt during the man's song, returned with a vengeance.

"Your hair isn't right," I said, running my fingernails over the ache in my chest, half tempted to puncture the skin and dig out whatever it was causing the hurt. He looked puzzled, relaxing and dragging his fingers across his scalp. The movement was the same as before but still wrong. Suddenly I was very angry.

"What's wrong with my –" he managed, before I sprung.

Dave never knew what hit him.