There was a word used to describe what she was being, derogatory and appallingly accurate as she flipped away from him, savoring the stunned look she'd seen rock his hardened features. Another, safer term was reckless, and that was reflected in the way she dashed through the undergrowth, the impression of fangs and breath still hot on her neck, pumping near to her pulse. If she'd been a few centimeters closer, or he'd overestimated his bite - if any number of small, inconsequential things had been different - she would have been bleeding and possibly dead. He wasn't her brother, and he had clearly established that he wasn't friendly. A bite at her throat would be for one reason, and it didn't involve playing games.

But that didn't mean that she was going to hand the musician his instrument and take a step back. By contrast, his demanding tone only made her push forward, loping over roots, sliding beneath thorny bolts of bramble overhead. This was her home, her country, and if she was going to be chased, she preferred the blur of forest colors in her periphery, running among familiar pitfalls. Even if he was somehow faster, she was smaller and blended better, her body dappled by sunlight and swallowed by green things. What if she didn't get away? Her jaw ached, saliva and blood pooling air-cold in the bottom of her mouth where a sharp edge slid between her teeth and bit her gums. She couldn't let such thoughts slow her down, but they were there nonetheless. Instead, she pictured invisibility and speed, grabbing at any small advantage as she willed her body to take on such aspects, running nowhere save away.