just as it was

"Oh, yeah, for sure. The owner's pretty good with me, and the other workers, too. They're good at covering for me when I need to leave for therapy or whatever." Annalise shrugged, looking back at Cam again. "No, he is not." She replied, tight-lipped, but she managed a smile nevertheless. "Thanks, Cam. You too, you know that."

Lis would be a hypocrite if she didn't stick by people like Cam when she had defended Reid so much. Cam was important to her, had always helped her when she'd needed it; she would help him if he ever needed it.

"Safe as can be, and not many people know where I live right now. It's new, and I've chosen to keep that information close to the chest." There were many people that she wasn't sure if she could trust anymore, and The Brotherhood were right up there. "Is there anything you need, Cam? That I can do?"

He won't ask where she lives - she's right to not tell anyone. But he reaches out and rests one hand on her shoulder, just a pat. "Good idea. But no, there's - There's not much. Not right now."

There are things he could ask for. There are things he could tell her about the threats from the Brotherhood, but they're supposed to be on opposites of the war that plagues the underworld. "I'll see you, Lis. And we'll keep in touch."

That's as much promise as he's willing to make.

She watches him inspect her feet and pulls away, ticklish. "Wh-where am I?" Is the first question, but then the timbre and tone of his voice seems to make a few latches tumble into place. "Wait..."

She startles, scooting down the bench from him, jolting to her feet. "You! You're why I'm here,"

Has to be.

"You... you... juju'd me!" She borrows the word from Tom. "From the other night!" Her finger points accusingly, and it adds nothing to the menace of her though, shaking like she is. Then, accusingly, her quivering features stare with accusation; "Didn't you?"

Door shut again, he turns back to the shivering, frail woman trying her best to get away from him. He keeps his distance, and stands with his hands in his pockets.

"I am not, nor did I. I compelled you to take me to your home, and I fed from you. We have not had contact sense." He says it, gently, as if coaxing her to remember - because he did not wipe the events from her mind. Frustrated, he starts to move forward, but there's a knock on the door.

Taking the items from the attendant, he shuts the door again, and actually moves forward this time. He hands her the bottle of water first. "It's below freezing outside, and you're not dressed for warmth, let me help you." The words grumble out of his chest, and he takes one of the towels to wrap around her shoulders - the other for her lap and feet.

"Did you hit your head?"

"Are you here for the..."

Reid tips his head away from whatever violence paints the canvas he's looking at, to look at the dark-haired, charcoal-eyed figure in a long overcoat. He hadn't paid much eye to the stragglers in McCormick's gallery, not even the shifty looking ones who stare at him like he's hiding something.

He is, but it's hardly what they're hoping for.

Arms folded, and indifferent to whatever the guy's looking for, Reid's gaze flies beyond the stranger's shoulder to see Cam's shape emerge from a staff door. That assured poise and invisible link that almost had Reid forgetting he's done that to the man. Torn him back from the edge, so he can be here, talking to art collectors and the like.

"No. Here for him." Reid shoots the overcoat a sharp smile, and nods over towards McCormick's approach. He doesn't wait, bypasses the stranger and slowly meets his old friend in his stride. A smile that's less room for conversation in Cam's house of horrors, and instead one that Reid's more adept within. Familiar faces that don't expect him to balance the beast of a lock on the cage in his chest, "McCormick. You're coming for a drink." Too long without. And still, not enough time planned to stay in town, to waste it with explanations upon his return. Not at least, without a beer in his hand. The scarred hand shifts awkwardly in the crook of his elbow. "I don't care if you don't need one. I do."

And company who won't fight him about needless shit, seems good. Or at least if they fought, Reid hopes they're drawing lines at eyes, this time.

Unrelated but equally as fucked, "Also, is that sculpture carved out of bone over there?"

His gaze flicks from Reid to the sculpture. "Clay. Made to look like bone." Because he is not an animal.

They leave the gallery to the nearest place to grab a drink - and Cam does not protest any bit. In Reid's time away, he doesn't think he's changed much, doesn't think much has happened to him, either. Glass in hand, he sips and savors the ashy burn of alcohol - all while he eyes the pulsing vein in the bartender's neck.

Maybe a nightcap if Reid is open to it. He won't ask, because he knows what he was like before. His thumb traces the rim of his glass and he finally asks, "Why are you back? I'd banked on it being a few decades before I saw you again." Another sip, and he drags his eyes away from the call of blood.

"I hope there's no trouble." In paradise, with his family, or on the road.

He didn't understand why he couldn't just draw the damn vase and petals. Sketch them out like normal, detail them until they became something real. Or maybe he did understand. Cameron was trying to teach him a different approach. One that he was clearly failing at.

"Right." He muttered as he stared at the painting on the wall. He let out a breath, running his hand over his face before he turned his attention back to the canvas. "You mean do another sketch." He stated, his mentor clearly thinking he was going to get the one he'd just started done in a timely manner. "Is there a due date, of sorts?"

He offers an odd smile - a genuine one."Another one, yes. On your own time. That way you may start over as you please, and choose which subject you like. We'll shoot for a month's time from now. Once that's completed, we'll move onto other subjects - live paints, sketches."

Sliding away from him and setting down the charcoal, he brushes his hands against one another to rid them of grime. "This is me simply getting a feel for your process and how you learn. If you finish earlier, by all means. This one you'll finish now. Don't think. Just do. You have ten minutes."

it's freezing. it's frigid cold and she's pretty sure she's dying, but she can't stop, because it's behind her. the whole world's frozen but her feet feel hot.

she stops to turn and look, to see if IT is still there.

it is. it's walking, slow but inexorable.

she remembers a door next, a door and a floor that's slippery. rows and rows of moving images that evoke nothing - sludgy oils locked in simple frames.

she sees two shapes, clung together, descending into some dark hole in the wall. she follows, but not too close. halfway down the endless steps, holly looks back, and IT isn't there anymore.

'The hell are you doing?'

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and gloves still adorning his hands, he looks over to see the commotion at the front end. Handing the crop off to one of the other professionals, he leaves the area.

At the front, the first thing he notices is that not that the woman is from his feed the other night, but that she is shivering and barefoot in his club. Moving forward, he first checks the doorman for damage. The scent of blood is ripe in the air here, and his lips press into a thin line. "Go, get to the hospital."

Then to Holly. He does touch her, because he can handle the pain if she lashes out again, with a simple graze of his fingertips to her shoulder. "You're freezing. Let's get somewhere private." It's warmer here than it is out there, but it's certainly not somewhere to give proper care and attention. He doesn't know this girl, but he is not so cruel as to let her succumb to sickness under his roof. She's here already, after all.

He doesn't wait for her answer, and leads her to an area that would usually need to be rented out for privacy. Perhaps, he thinks, it might be better to head to his office upstairs - where there is a somewhat comfortable couch and at least something to make tea. Later, then. The only surface in the room is a leather bench, but he sits her on it anyways. Kneeling down in front of her, he checks her feet for wounds or signs of frostbite.

"Why did you come to my gallery?"

Still, she was glad to hear that he was doing well. It was becoming commonplace - people she cared about were vampires. Whether they had been them when she met them, or had been turned at some point along the way, it seemed it was almost inevitable.

"Yes." He answers with a pause, the word slowly slithering out from between his teeth. "Unfortunately, I do make mistakes when I care for people, and that certainly.. was a mistake." He might laugh here, if he were a different person. Instead the sentence lingers.

"One day at a time is what we must all do." Cam nods, his hands finding the pockets of his thicker jacket - appearances must be made, after all. "I see the job seems to be working out." A quick nod of his head towards Earshot, the muscles in his lips twitching to a slight smile. "You know if you need anything, you can just call me. I know your brother is no longer in town, so."

He cannot be a replacement brother, but he - at the very least - can help keep an eye on her until he's able or willing to return. "You've got a safe place to live, yes?" She should know that he means because of monsters after hunters, because of other hunters who might have it out for the Halsteads, or the weather or what lurks within it.

In her anemic daze, she can't help but smile, sleepy eyes at it. She's not crazy. Neither is Tom'. Things unseen are just that, things unseen.

While there is the cacophony of wire and technology strewn about, there is belief interwoven between the mess. A human who does not know for sure about the world they live, but has almost certainly had an experience who believes in the dark and what crawls underneath them. A hint of a smile plays at his lips.

He'd made an interesting choice for a meal. Wiping the blood from the corners of his mouth, finally, with his thumb - he looks up to her face. One that is unfamiliar to the world of Port Leiry - a newcomer, perhaps. She has no idea of what she's stepped into, but maybe she's the type who finds pleasure in finding out. Does she love the monster? Does she fear it? Or is she simply curious?

"So be it." He lifts a hand to her head, lifting it up so they're making eye contact. It would be easy to go against her wishes - he'd done it before with plenty of other victims - whether he'd been vampire, hunter, or human. "You have a curiosity within you. I can see it in the way you look at me. Keep your distance." There is no compulsion here, simply a warning.

But he leaves in a blur, through the apartment building, until he's standing on the snowy and icy sidewalk, looking up into the brick.

Art had always been one of the only things that took Flynn's mind off of his past, as well as his present. It dragged his thoughts away from his magic, his coven, and the expectations of his parents. It allowed him a space to feel free -- like a version of himself he actually liked. But focusing on negative space, instead of a real topic, caused his mind to wander more. For doubtful and negative thoughts to seep in through the cracks.

Frustration showed in his strokes -- harsher lines with pieces of charcoal sticking to the canvas in its wake. "The negative space. It's-- it doesn't make sense to me. There's no real focal point. I mean, there's some form of an outline but there's no real details." Nothing that Flynn could lose his mind into. Nothing to become meticulous over.

Arms crossed over his chest, he listens as Flynn speaks, and he thinks he may be able to pinpoint the issue here, then. The man is not thinking in details, but rather filling out space. He steps closer, mostly to pick up his own charcoal pencil. "Excuse me." He does not make marks on the art piece, but uses it instead to point.

"You need to shift your thinking, I believe. Easier said than done, I realize. Follow me for a second." He points to the bottom, and traces the outline lightly without touching the pencil to canvas. "You are thinking of negative space as empty, rather than it's own form of detail. Yes, it is an outline, but here -"

Here, he moves to where the space would slip between petals of the flowers, where the stems would lead the eyes to the focal point. "You must use it as a tool to guide the eyes of the viewer. When you focus on the space, you must make sure to slip between the cracks and see what is not there."

He turns, and gestures to another painting on the wall - not one of his own, but one that is mostly a dark black and brown space, and the subject is a woman looking up with a hand covering her own neck. It's one of the tamer paintings here. "Your eye first goes to the woman, no? To the shape of her hands, but take a moment and look again, how the darkness envelops her, and forms the shape she makes. If you need details to focus on, focus on the shape that the space makes. You, as an artist, are guiding the layman to the what you want them to see."

Holly winces as he tightens the blue-wrapped wire, pulling it tight. A shallow ache spreads outward from it as she watches him - Cam - raise her hand to his mouth and hang his jaw wide. Curious horror spreads across her features, and there's a tug at her arm at first, just one, before she realizes she won't be anywhere near strong enough to pull away. "Ow-!" the whine escapes.

A part of her tries to fight the reflex to pull free, another the urge to slap him upside the head. But feeling blood pull out of her, she also can't help but stare. Her face crinkles, watching him. "Uhm. Are you going to kill me? If so I'd like to maybe try and talk you out of it?'

Pulling back, he wipes the blood from his lips and watches the wound on her wrist seep blood out, dripping down her skin and splattering onto the carpet beneath their feet. Without a word, he unties the makeshift tourniquet and rubs the indent left behind with his thumb.

"I do not plan on killing you." He says, simply. "I was only hungry. There is no need to plead." The blood continues to pour out of her wrist and he hums. "You'll be lightheaded for a bit until you recover."

Looking around, he wonders if she has a first aid kit somewhere. Or at least a bandage. Surely. Leading over to somewhere to sit, he gets her comfortable and departs to look for just that.

"How?" Who, more like. The questions were the same, but to her, the species of a person had started to matter less and less. What would she do if Aurelia ordered her to hunt Cam? Reid? Daniela? Annalise knew the answer already, but the little huntress wasn't sure she was ready to commit to another big change in her life without just cause, not yet.

"You handling it okay?" Looks could be deceiving, and whilst Cam looked put together enough, she couldn't imagine the transition was easy for anyone. It was beginning to look like they were fated to fail in their cause; only the most ruthless of them would be able to go after those they'd once considered friends and family. Lis wasn't sure that was her anymore.

When she does, he offers the tense, guarded smile that goes away just as quickly as it comes. "I made the terrible decision to conduct a hunt on a man who had fed on someone I cared for. It was a miscalculation and an accident." His shoulders come up into a shrug. "Now here I am." If she puts the pieces together based on that sparse information, then that is up to her. As far as Cam knows or can guess - it is not up to him to tell people that Reid is his sire.

They'll run into each other again, he's sure of it.

His fingers curled around the charcoal as the other spoke -- jaw clenching as the medium snapped in half between his fingers. "You can smell it." A disbelieving laugh escaped his lips. It wasn't as though Flynn was trying to hide the fact that he was a witch, but he didn't want it to be part of this. He just wanted to be himself and to learn, without magic even being involved.

He's.. particular. Flynn will come to learn this.

Cameron's eyes flicker to the charcoal that's broken. This is a good test on its own, he realizes. But Flynn continues, and for that, he's happy that he's chosen him to work with. Crossing his arms over his chest, he steps behind Flynn and watches him continue to make the strokes. The art itself is not bad, but he can see where his apprentice is not confident in it. They can assess afterwards.

He watches the strokes, looks down to the subject and tilts his head. What is it that Flynn is struggling with? And how will he pick him apart to find the right string to pluck to make him into a great? All things to come in time. "What about this particular piece do you find challenging? Don't stop, just stream of consciousness."

He'll have to have the flames ready, right after.

Garrick's eyes swivel back to Cam, following the eyeful that gets cut off by the dampening of a door. He can't stop the amused smile. Interesting lad. Strange one, actually. "I ain't on a time crunch, but I's got no quarrel with a bit'a overhaul'." Dusting them's a start. Freeing those oppressed by laws they ain't got no business being dictating anyhow. They don't even realise how trapped they is. "You're new, ay? I's givin' you a chance to drop them, before I screw them."

There's a plan to go pay Tressa a visit. With her lofty ideals. Funny how easily Pret's new recruits are keen to jump ship. It's like the ship ain't worth sailing; better sunk, and lost to the depths than being known as a sailor aboard it.

And Garrick doesn't want to just overthrow it, he wants it gone. Erased. If something wants to climb into the crater he leaves behind, they're welcome to. It just better be something worth fighting for, and none of that stepping on the lil' man fuckery.

"Gripes with it." He chuckles, like that's another kind of funny. "They's don't need a leader, or a dictator, or none of that shite." It ain't him. He's a man of the people, they put him in a position to lead, more than once. But he talked to more than himself about decisions and moves forward on the board when making steps of war; it's a long time past now, too. He ain't the same man. "You's all gotta realise there ain't no one better than the other." Saint Cormac ain't no better or less than Garrick is. Not when they break it down to the base. Strength and power don't matter, not when it's used well. Cards get played when someone wants to disrupt the order of equal rights. Rebellion, is different to supremacy. "Only way any clan's gonna work, is if there ain't no sharp lines between them. Ain't nothing wrong with guidance, laddie. But the shmuck up top don't care for your gallery, or your club. They's just like to know its on her fuckin' bankroll. Status, whatever dominance they gotta chase to feel alive."

Money. Another power that Garrick's never cared much for.

His word choice had been accidental.

Boy's young, there's time for him to realise how the work of the dead'n gone works. Ain't worth doing with ivory tower folk, that's for sure. Garrick lifts his chin, curious then, tongue snapping on his teeth. "How well's you know this Tressa?"

Leaving a clan because one man wants to wipe them from the face of the earth, though - that does not interest him. Pretorius is a place to hide, at the end of the day. It's a way to be kept hidden away from those who wish to do him harm simply for the fact of being a hunter turned monster.

He hasn't come face to face with Pretorius leadership to know if what Garrick says is true, but he does know he writes a check for said protection. He scratches at the scruff on his cheek and chin as he thinks, "You want equality. Or equity? To put us all in equal footing - Does that mean you don't care for clans as a whole?" That interests him, too.

"As for Tressa, we've spoken once or twice. We're not close." He's not close to anyone. He thinks for a moment again. In this hallway, he ignores the sounds of his club, thinks of what it must have been like for the leaders of the hunter guilds for a man who did not care for their ideals and simply wanted a chance to kill and paint.

"There is no leaving for me, I have no choice. I need the safety net of some sort of group, larger than just two." He has no other option, but he does not want to get into that with this man. But maybe this Garrick could offer an alternative. "But if you decide instead of razing the Earth, finding another method of getting the same goal, I would gladly help."

"It shouldn't - it's from a latin word - the same word as demonstrate." She wrinkles her brows and her nose at herself, and doesn't look at him because that was an embarassing bit of word vomit considering the conversation at hand. She reaffirms her grip on the wheel.

It's strange, she realizes, how scared she is, how much she wants to get out of her car and run to her apartment and lock her doors and call Tom and tell him she's just had a class-1 pants-shittingly close interaction with one of his night-children, but at the same time she also remembers - like it's some long held belief, that she wants to have this man she's never met over. Like he hadn't just whispered it into her eyes a half hour ago.

That's why she walks into the building, and lets him follow her through the locked foyer door, and up the stairs and into the tiny shoe-box apartment with holes in the bathroom wall tiles and a front door that only kind of shuts right, turning as she crosses the threshold to look up at him.

Holly throws her hands to the side. "Uh, come in, sorry, it's a mess."

Not filthy in the gross sense, but disorderly for sure - equipment from the shop scattered around in various states of mechanical undress, wires and batteries and circuit boards. Sheets cover anything vaguely reflective, because it makes her feel a bit more comfortable.

The mess laid out before him makes his nose wrinkle, and he does not wait for an introduction into the home, nor does he wait for any sort of hospitality - he simply paces and roams, drifting fingertips over bits of wire there, a sheet here.

Neurotic. It amuses him.

Lifting a bit of a longer wire in between his index and thumb, he moves back over to where Holly stands. "This has been an interesting glimpse inside your mind." He takes her hand and lifts it, turning it over as if gauging where best to do this. Of course, it would be more intimate and cliche to taste of her neck, but he finds he likes the idea of looking into her eyes while he feeds much more compelling.

He wraps the wire around her forearm, a few inches below the elbow to create a tourniquet of sorts, and ties it off neatly and tightly. This part will be.. interesting without compulsion. He'd never done it on an unwilling participant without compelling them to calm down or not scream. There is.. a thrill here.

Pressing a thumb to her wrist, he massages the veins while he works his jaw to allow his teeth to elongate. The whites of his eyes turn deep, dark red, and veins expand beneath them. "Do as you wish, but it will be easier for you if you do not fight back."

One hand curling around her wrist, and the other pressing into the small of her back, he brings his eyes to hers and sinks his fangs into her flesh.

If she thought he was a hugger, she would have embraced him right there. "Thank you. I suppose it's a wonder what admitting you need help does for a person."

And, you know, killing your parents but who's counting that?

"How have you been? You look the same as always, it's hard to tell." Everything after her parents' death was hazy. It was as though she was alive, but not really existing or perceiving existence. Reid could have told her the world was on fire, and she wouldn't have recalled it.

And he finds that rumors are nothing important to a comrade he'd once cared for.

"I suppose I do." Amusing, that. She doesn't know, then? Cameron tilts his head away from her, glancing up towards the gloomy sky, and wondering if the daylight jewelry was worth fitting in better. If the snow and storms let up, he'll be confined again. Not that it bothers him too deeply. He debates for a few moments on whether to drop the bomb here, and ultimately decides that it's fine -

"I've been -" A sigh, "I've been well. As well as a vampire can be." A hunt on her brother, a stupid attempt at vengeance that now ultimately means nothing - but he doesn't know how to simply drop that into conversation.

As he dragged the charcoal down the page, his focus shifted towards what his mentor had asked. Flynn's hands, which were already sweating, began to perspire even more. He gripped the charcoal in an effort to regain some form of control. "I don't see why that has anything to do with what you're teaching me." Flynn muttered, eyes trained on the canvas.

Being a witch -- having magic -- wasn't something Flynn voiced to many people. Hell, he never even talked about it unless it was with the people in his Coven. And even then, it was at a minimum. It was part of his life, sure, but he did not want to be defined by it.

The reaction he gets from his pupil isn't what he'd expected exactly - but there is something of a reaction. He'd expected jumping or faltering or something, but it's a pleasant surprise. "It has something to do with your apprenticeship, but not much. More so our working relationship."

He waits a moment more, watching the sketch continue. Flynn seems to be struggling, but an artist never improves by simply giving up. After a few more minutes, "I can smell it in your blood. This light, floral scent. I'll need to know if it will provide distraction for you in our lessons on your end." Another moment, watching the strokes along the canvas. When Flynn finishes, he will make sure to point out where he could improve and then make him shift this piece into something he's proud of - even if it doesn't meet the requirements of the lesson.

He rubbed his jaw, fingers brushing over the small amount of stubble that he had along his chin, picked up some charcoal and began working. Flynn darkened the edges of the page, focusing on the background before he did the subject. He was mindful of where the light shone, keeping some areas blank as he sketched.

Now, as a vampire, he's called to their blood in a way he doesn't particularly care for. Cameron intends to not make mistakes here or repeat past ones. He watches the sketch without a word, and once he's about a quarter through, he throws a wrench into this - to make him falter on purpose, to see if Flynn can keep composure.

"Were you born with magic in your veins or did you pick it up later?" He waits a simple heartbeat and continues with the lesson as if the previous question were simply about his plans for the evening. "This is coming along nicely. I see your struggle, though. Loosen your shoulder, if you will."

"Is there a topic or--" Flynn's lack of confidence tried to peak itself out from behind the mask he so often wore. "Free draw?"

A topic would make it easier. He makes a gesture for his student to wait, and leaves the area to head towards his office, pulling one of the decorative plants to set it under the light. He takes a moment to adjust the leaves and petals, allowing for more viewing of the space. "If you'd like a subject, use this. If it's easier to use your imagination, do so. But only outlines, no details. You're going to be using shading to create shapes, play with light and shadow. Draw attention to what is not there."

He keeps his voice gentle when he speaks, so as to not seem harsh. In this instance, at least.