hold not the wolf by the ears

It's 3:17 in the morning when someone starts pounding on the door.

Macon knows the exact time; it's damn near burned into his retinas from the bedside table alarm clock. The irradiated red numbers flash behind his eyelids through each blink as he snaps his book shut and glances towards the door. It couldn't be a Caster-any Caster who looked for him wouldn't think of this motel or hesitate long enough to knock-and if someone from the Blood Pack were on his trail the pitted metal would be shattered, or, he supposed, Hunting's brood would be fond of staining it crimson. Mortals wouldn't be about this early-he didn't smell smoke and there wasn't the scream of sirens-and he could practically hear the hell that would break loose in the hallway if the person didn't stop knocking.

In all honesty, he should have gone further. The near miss in Florence County was still raw in the back of his mind. Hunting's slew of idiots could follow a trail, at least, and Macon hadn't made it more than ten miles before his hands had started shaking and his trust in Traveling had diminished completely. What was left of the gasoline was spent on burning the stolen car on the side of the road with miniscule artifacts in it-a fob from Milan that ticked quietly enough he almost forgot it counted down his seconds and a notebook that held scribbles he thought about enough times they were sharper than the pen could recreate them-his clothes were dropped off at a house that vaguely reminded him of Gatlin. Consequently, the house also yielded a decent change of clothing, albeit not his preferred attire, and, when he wandered to the motel blocks towards the highway, the front deskman hadn't questioned his acquisition of a small room, even when he overpaid by nearly fifty dollars.

Instead of listening to any of the warnings pounding beneath his ribs, he crosses the six paces it takes to reach the door in a series of stumbling, shuffling strides and hopes to holy hell whoever is waking up his neighbors isn't out for his blood.

He doesn't bother with staring through the peephole's fisheye lens long enough to recognize who is on the sidewalk, instead opting for tugging the chain lock out of the door and throwing wide the pitted door. Admittedly, it takes him longer than it should to recognize the overcoat is similar but new and the hair is in a braid, not a ponytail, but he sighs in relief anyway when the form is recognized. "Hells and heavens," he murmurs.

Leah's body casts a long shadow into the room.

She looks uncomfortable, cagey, hands shoved into the pockets of her overcoat and not quite shuffling from foot to foot. She's sporting a split lip, and there's a smear of coal on her jaw. She attempts to offer a smile, but it manifests like a nervous tic of her cheek. The harsh light emphasized the hollowness of her cheeks, the starkness of the shadows beneath her eyes, and the exuberance harbored within them. He himself can't be much better with the only light behind him being the flickering of a dim lamp.

She doesn't say anything, predictably.

So Macon does. "Where did the wind take you this time?" he offers, the question rhetorical, a greeting more than anything else. It's been about two months since he's seen Leah, but he learned years ago not to bother worrying-or looking for her-when she drops off the grid.

When her lips only tighten, he turns, shuffling back into the blessed near-darkness of the room, hears Leah catch the door before it can swing shut. The light scratch of her pulling the laces of her boots open breaks the silence.

"Heard the Pack's storehouse had problems," Leah says, and Macon's exhausted, but he manages his knife-edge smile; Leah can act like she doesn't care all she wants, but she's never been able to not keep tabs on him.

"Good take, no injuries." Macon sits down on the remade bed, facing her. "Well, Barclay sprained his ankle, but that happened after we left the radius." Which, to be fair, if there were ever a good time to sprain your ankle, Kent found it. "But, you know," he says, gesturing vaguely.