Re: promenade
The runner practically jumps. He pitches his body forward, reaching for the baseball bat at his side, and by the time he wheels around he's ready to swing.
But she's not dead, and while she looks kind of out of it, she isn't rotting and stumbling toward him. She can talk, too, which is definitely a good sign. He hasn't forgotten the coven in the jersey pine barrens, though, nor the sidhe in the hills outside Dublin. All that looks human isn't always, not by a long shot.
He keeps the bat up, looking back at her, wary. "Don't you try anything," he rasps, muffled under the scarf. In the light, the bat glints, and it becomes clear that it is adorned with four rows of nails. "I blessed these fuckers at St. Andrew's myself."