One touch and your world's upside down, let it carry you away

New Orleans was vibrant and alive--admittedly with problematic elements, like all the dead things walking around undead. Peter had watched them for his first few nights in the Quarter and caught a few of them watching back. They hadn't made any moves toward him though, either considering him not a threat or not knowing what to make of him. If they weren't going to bother him, then he resolved to not bother them, either.

There weren't any other wolves, though, and he wasn't sure if that was good--no one to challenge or treat with over territory--or bad--where were they? Granted, it was a big city, and wolves traditionally liked to live closer to somewhere they could easily run, and for the moment he'd filed it away as that and been grateful. Since he intended to stay for a while, making nice in someone else's territory would have been awkward.

Better to just claim it as his own.

He bought a house in the Garden District, with enough trees around it for privacy, and a certain mysterious charm, wanting to be close to the Quarter, but not right in the midst of the noise. Besides--the Garden District was where Tulane was. And Tulane? 

Well, that was where Lydia was.

By careful observation, he'd worked out most of her schedule, knew which dorm she was in, which room, which window. The campus was lovely with lots of shaded areas and overhanging trees and he'd managed to find a bench under one with a perfect view--if you had a wolf's vision. Jeans, a broken in blazer and a leather messenger bag and anyone catching him reading there figured he was a professor. At night, he found it easy to blend in to the shadows, watching until she closed her blinds.

He didn't spend every night there, of course. Really. Just enough to know she was all right, that no one was bothering her. Enough to snarl at every boy who walked her home or he suspected of doing more. Interestingly...a couple of them seemed to drop out of school, disappear, shortly after any such encounter. Not that he had anything to do with that. Really.

She was his. He'd marked her, chosen her, bonded with her. He'd only been waiting for her to grow up before coming to claim her.

Now she had; and here he was.

He hadn't approached her, yet. The perfect time hadn't come. But he'd been in her room, breathing in her scent, leaving his though only another wolf or one of the dead things would catch it, know she belonged to someone.  He never took anything, but he left a long stem rose on her pillow each visit. Blood red, thorns still on. He came at different times, always careful to vary them, to stick to the shadows in case she'd left a camera running. Usually he did it when she was out, but once he'd slipped in, leaving it for her while she showered, and another morning she would have awakened to it next to her, like a token from a lover.

Which it was.

Tonight, she'd gone down to the Quarter with friends, and Peter followed. Watched the boys who bought her drinks, watched her dancing, laughing, followed her along crowded streets. Eventually she'd separate from the pack, and he'd follow, then, too.

He was tired of waiting.