Did she? He had a feeling she did... but maybe a part of him wanted to deny it, to keep his instincts at a safe distance. A lion in an enclosure.
The rough-surface of his fingers melted over on the lemony side of the street, gathered the weapon of mass distraction from the little hooves, breathed in the exotic perfume of limbo. When the voodoo fever went orange for the flame and danced its smoke, devoured, rolled like Cleopatra out of a carpet thrown into the heatwave of his turbulent ribs, he muttered as he held in its witcheries of the wood: "Then it was fate." and out, the thick mist, up to no where, impairing the rot of the rest of what tomb petals stayed on his pelt. He choked on the burning ring of fire.