Apparently, the wolf had keen eyesight, as he called her out on her shaking hands. “Plenty have tried to kill me, and they didn’t have trembling hands, so you better be the best damn marksman in the world if you are going to shoot me,” he said before crossing his arms, looking irritated. Béatrix growled deep in her throat as her fangs extended in aggression. She would show him that she was indeed, the most deadly markswoman in the world. With squinted eyes, she steadied her aim dead center over his heart and squeezed the trigger. Except, she didn’t squeeze it, it was like some unseen force was preventing the trigger from depressing and firing the gun. Maybe it was physically impossible to kill your own soulmate? Figures. Trixy lowered her guns and smirked slightly, despite her frustration. If she couldn’t kill him, that meant he couldn’t kill her either.
Béatrix took a few steps towards him and began circling him like a shark would its prey. “You don’t even know who I am, do you?” her voice was low and teasing, the French accent making it sound more sultry than intended. “I assume the name on your wrist is my birth name, but that’s not the one your people know me by.” Wolfsbane, a name known in all of the far corners of the world, sometimes spoken of as only a myth, sometimes in pure terror. She was to the wolves what Van Helsing was to the vampires. In the past five centuries, her body count had reached the thousands, so why couldn’t she just add this one to the pile? What did she do to deserve this punishment, was losing Francis not enough?
“So this isn’t some sick joke after all, or a dream. Only thing I can think of is it’s punishment.” he said, as if he was voicing her own thoughts. Maybe they were soul mates after all, as unlikely as that seemed at the moment. Trixy holstered her guns once more, no use holding them if she couldn’t use them against him. With her left thumb and index finger, she unwound the black bindings from her wrist, letting the ribbons flutter to the ground gracefully, and revealing the blue glowing tattoo on her wrist. “I couldn’t agree more,” she looked down to read his name for the first time in decades “Bartholomew.” What a hideous name… she thought to herself.
Béatrix took a few steps towards him and began circling him like a shark would its prey. “You don’t even know who I am, do you?” her voice was low and teasing, the French accent making it sound more sultry than intended. “I assume the name on your wrist is my birth name, but that’s not the one your people know me by.” Wolfsbane, a name known in all of the far corners of the world, sometimes spoken of as only a myth, sometimes in pure terror. She was to the wolves what Van Helsing was to the vampires. In the past five centuries, her body count had reached the thousands, so why couldn’t she just add this one to the pile? What did she do to deserve this punishment, was losing Francis not enough?
“So this isn’t some sick joke after all, or a dream. Only thing I can think of is it’s punishment.” he said, as if he was voicing her own thoughts. Maybe they were soul mates after all, as unlikely as that seemed at the moment. Trixy holstered her guns once more, no use holding them if she couldn’t use them against him. With her left thumb and index finger, she unwound the black bindings from her wrist, letting the ribbons flutter to the ground gracefully, and revealing the blue glowing tattoo on her wrist. “I couldn’t agree more,” she looked down to read his name for the first time in decades “Bartholomew.” What a hideous name… she thought to herself.