Before The Sleep

You could slice the tension in the air with one razor-sharp claw.

She raises one, as if to do just that. It's curved, like her mouth. All those teeth! Bright white and so very long, like frost-glazed midwinter nights. Their points carry venom, and the promise of festive red splashes. Wine on snow.

She hasn't taken her eyes off him for a second. Her talons click, patient and forboding, then clatter in a vicious cacophony when she skitters sideways, lightning-quick.

She could've had him then, if she chose. She was a whisker's breath away. To open one flank would've been easier than pushing a hot knife through brandy butter, and twice as satisfying. He didn't even flinch. His eyes drill right into hers, past her claws and fangs. Like a sportsman, or a poker player, he relies on those flinty orbs to tell him her next play. Which way she will lunge and how. He takes a step forward, panther-like and silent.

The Mariah is a noisy beast, with her clacking talons and chittering teeth. Like a rugby player, or a furious kitten, she spreads herself wide and makes lots of noise to intimidate her prey. Their fear is a feast to her, as much as their bones.

This one, though, is completely unafraid. Silent, too. If not for the subtle steam coming off him, you could believe he was hardly even there; a wisp only, a shadow, a ghost. As like to melt into the surrounding pines as the snow itself. You won't hear him coming, not a peep, until he's right behind you, crooning your death knell into your ear.

He brings near-human heat to her reptilian chill. One wonders if the Mariah has finally met her match.

The Bublé smiles a glacial smile, and it begins. Are they battling for mastery of seasonal caterwauling, or just for mere sport? Is it to the death? Is there a carnal element? And if there is, will either survive it? Will she be reduced to a puddle under his onslaught; will his wool coat be soaked and darkened and tacky with the fount of blood from his yawning neck? Will her bones and scales crack, will she swallow his head whole like a bitter pill (I have a headache darling).

We can never know the ways of these creatures. One thing we can be sure of: there will probably be lots of blood.

Lock your windows, then. Don't peep out the gap in the curtains. Just sit tight and let them come to their own understanding, out there in the snow. After, one of them will retreat back into the ice for the ten month Sleep.