Mingan narrowly sidestepped the Ethereal woman, spinning out of her grasp. She was quick, but her movements were awkward. She faltered, favoring her left side, dark and damp with blood.

Still, she was brilliantly fast, deft, and graceful in her movements. He found himself on guard, senses heightened as she spun and rounded on him once more. As he moved to shield himself with a counter block, she shied away, wary of that injured side.

When she healed, he'd have to reevaluate her skills, judge her abilities and the threat of her. But now, he shamelessly took advantage of the opening, stepping into her, catching her arm and twisting it behind her. She let out a pained whimper and stilled, holding her side with her free hand.

"Enough," he said firmly into her ear. "I suggest you listen to me, girl. There are others who will not be as patient with you."

"Patience? This is patience?" She wrenched and twisted her arm free with considerable effort. He allowed her to break his grasp, though the effort was not without consequence. She staggered back from him, clutching at her side, panting in pain.

"I am your best hope for survival," he told her simply. "The sooner you understand, the better."

He dug into the pack and retrieved the documents, folding them one more time and slipping them deep into his jeans pocket, joining the crumpled scrap that was already there. He hoped they would be legible after this abuse, but they were safer on his person.

"These are dangerous, as many would judge you to be."

She grimaced. "And what do you judge me to be?"

"I am not entirely sure yet." He shrugged the pack back into place on his shoulder. "We had best get moving. There is a ranch some distance from here, but it is well protected. You will be safe enough there."

He set off, not bothering to see if she followed.

They traveled in silence through the dark, moonlit forest. He knew this area well, but the girl's progress was slow in her ragged night clothes and thin-soled shoes. She began to lag behind, stumbling through the undergrowth despite his effort to keep to the narrow game trails.

"You need to pick up your pace. Those who hunt you will surely catch up to us at this rate." It was something of a bluff. He'd been backtracking to cover their trail, where he didn't set runes to cover their tracks, he offered distractions. False trails and leads.

The Bear was formidable, but not a keen hunter. He relied on brute strength and fear. It was unlikely that even with the sly Cucuy that they had managed to track them. And that was if Hayet and Lokni hadn't set the two packing.

She shook her head, shoulders rounded. "Keep going," she gasped.

She was Ethereal, one of the Light. They, like his own kind, healed quickly. With her ability to fight, her quick recovery from El Cucuy's blow to the head, he'd assumed she was well enough to travel. He'd given her breaks as he'd covered their trail. He'd thought it was enough.

There had been so much blood still matted in her hair and staining her clothes, he'd ignored it. Yet, now, this scent was fresh, thick, and warm.

"Your injury. It's not healing," he commented, arms crossed as he studied her.

"I-I will be alright." She slumped against a tree, her legs trembling beneath her. Despite her protests otherwise, her legs gave out, and she slid down into the thick bed of fern.

Mingan sighed. She was certainly determined. He couldn't help but warm to her a little. "Show me," he ordered and knelt beside her.

Hesitantly, she pulled her hand away from where she guarded the dark, damp patch on her side. He grimaced as she the edges of the torn cloth away from her flesh. A deep gouge ran from her hip, up and under her ribs. It was jagged and inflamed, the work of El Cucuy's claws. They were much like the teeth of a komodo dragon, rife with bacteria. He felt a pang of concern for Hayeta. Last he'd seen her she'd been teasing that old monster.

"I will heal," she insisted, dropping the fabric once more, holding her side tight with the intention of rising once more.

He grabbed her by the arm, feeling the heat rising from her. It wasn't a good sign. "I need to tend that wound if we're to reach the ranch."

"Don't touch me," she said, her tone fearful, wavering.

He released her fevered arm and shook his head, pulling his pack off his shoulder. "I don't know how you even made it this far." He dug out his first aid kit, a battered box always stocked with needle and thread, as well as other bare essentials for closing the wounds that would not easily heal on their own.

"My glamour is gone, the seals on my powers, all gone..."

"And?" He was humoring her more than anything.

"I cannot control my influence." She looked away. "I don't know what might happen if you touch me when I'm weak like this."

"Your influence," he muttered, digging through his bag once more. "Do you mean that telepathy of yours? I have guards. You have no effect on me."

It wasn't entirely true. He wasn't sure of the extent of her abilities. The fact that she'd been able to read him seemed to surpass any of those he'd encountered in the past. His runes had faded, true, but his wolf would protect him from malicious intent or manipulation. She might influence him, she might be able to read him to a lesser extent, but controlling him would take more power than any single Mythic possessed.

"I will be alright," she said, determinedly, and drew away from him, attempting to stand. She failed miserably, collapsing back against the tree. The scent of fresh blood filled his nose, her efforts only causing the wound to re-open.

"No, you won't. Now sit still." He batted away her attempts at protest and wrenched up the edge of her tattered clothes. She gasped, shoving at him. The scent of fear and pain hit him, and he sat back, studying her. She curled up against the roots of the tree, drawn as far from him as she could manage. Weak and fevered as she was, she had little fight left.

Empathy won out, and he took a deep breath. He settled back on his heels averting his eyes as she rearranged the sad remnants of her clothes. If she was all that she seemed, some sympathy was warranted. She'd come through this realm in her nightclothes, alone, unprepared, and unarmed. Impressively, she'd kept her wits about her and collected the documents, despite being attacked.

Injured, she'd followed him without question through dark, foreign woods despite his clear disregard for her wants or needs. If nothing else, he had to prove that he had nothing to fear from his close proximity. She had insisted that he would help her, trusting her influence on him. And now, that same influence caused her to fear him. It was something of a paradox. Yet it made him want to trust her more, her reluctance to use her abilities more than absolutely necessary.

"Look," he said, pulling open the first few buttons of his shirt, revealing a network of tattoos, symbolic of the various spells etched in his flesh. "Protection runes. Give me your hand," he urged, leaning closer.

She edged back, studying him. "Why?"

"I need you to understand."