Tholo returned her fury with a growl and removed her hands from his shirt. Béatrix let him lower her clenched fists, but she remained in place, her chin tilted up to keep her gaze steady with his. She was shorter than him, but if this came to a fight for dominance, beast versus beast, she would stand her ground as she always had. But he didn’t fight, something that he saw in her eyes caused him to soften as much as the old wolf could. He told her a story about the Francis that he knew. It sounded just like him…

Tholo went to get a cup of coffee as he continued his tale. It wasn’t just a tale, though, it was the truth. A good deal of Trixy’s job involved knowing when she was being lied to, and Tholo wasn’t lying. Eventually, Trixy softened as well, even going as far as to seat herself at the dining table with a cup of coffee of her own. Once finished speaking, Tholo waited to gauge her reaction. Trixy ran her thumb along the table, trying to think of what to say, when he his voice crept into her mind again. Did he have to think so[i] loud[/i]? And she wasn’t happy with what he was thinking.

“Francis était pas une passade, vous con!” her anger flared, but she kept her temper under control this time. Slipping into her native tongue caused her accent to thicken, even in her upcoming english words. Béatrix released a deep sigh before flexing her fingers towards the palm of her right hand, just inches from the tattoo that said it all. “Francis was… my sire. He saved my life, and he stole my heart. Hell, some days I think he has it still. I was dying of plague when he embraced me. You might think of us vampires as cursed, but you are wrong, it is a blessing, a second chance.” Trixy paused and studied the wolf’s face. 

“This Francis, your Francis. He had fair, curly hair, no?” Tholo nodded a yes. “I would offer a last name to compare, but he existed before the need for surnames, as his sire was a daughter of Caine himself. And yes, he was going to hold a high seat in France, a seat that I will someday hold. But… you never heard from him again for a reason. He died in the summer of 1486. A werewolf came into our home during the day and clawed out his heart.” Béatrix met his gaze and turned over her wrist before looking down at the faded, crossed out name that paled in comparison to Bartholomew’s mark. Trixy closed her eyes, mostly to concentrate on not getting emotional. “I’m sorry, I thought that you…” she paused, and opened her eyes again. “There’s a reason they called me Madame Vengeance, and Wolfsbane, I was not a scourge on your kind without reason. But, over five centuries have come and gone, and I am trying to put that life behind me now. “

It was shocking that she had revealed so much to this stranger, and a wolf none-the-less. Perhaps stranger wasn’t quite the right word, as she had worn his name on her wrist for nearly 530 years, albeit hidden away beneath black lace. That fact alone made this conversation all the more disturbing, and confusing. Talking about how the love of her life died with the future love--. No, no… he wasn’t that.