It was when the creepy grin spread across her features that Justin felt the tingle in the base of his spine. In all his dealings with the witch, he'd seen her many moods: fear, anger, sorrow, hope, love, despair - to name those more prominent in their world. There was little he didn't know about her. Leading her down paths of his own choosing time and again had become as second nature to him as much as breathing in and breathing out wasn't thought on. The smile acted as a chokehold on him.

He got very little time to scaffold the look on her face into his knowledge of her before her words poured out like soured honey, the confidence in her tone a paradox.

And her eyes. Her eyes. They shone with an almost manic glee. Gone was the fear and the uncertainity that had danced its familiar pattern, replaced with a primal edge that, had he seen years back, may have thrilled him. Now, it only caused the small hair at the base of his neck to stand erect.

His breath grew short, his eyes widening the slightest. Whatever had happened to change Paris, he was sure he didn't know. Some part of him wanted to preen his ego with the thought that he had been responsible, after so many run-ins with the other, of this shift in her personality. The way her hands touched him - burned him - he knew he couldn't take claim for this.

If he knew the truth of her change, his fear may have likely turned to panic.

He couldn't back up fast enough to get out of her clutches and, try as he might, his hands refused to grip her and toss her from him. The battle in his mind, the battle to make his arms move, to force his fingers to curl about her upper arms, to shove her caused a fine sweat to break on his forehead. The heavy wooden bed scraped a harsh two inches across the floor, scarring the worn flooring.

"Leave," he barked. It came out a flutter of a whisper.