the calling - chapter 1, part III

Her hands jammed into the front pockets her fingernails cutting almost half-moons into the delicate flesh of her palms, smooth of callouses, as soft as the petals of a rose. She walked with even steps, her hips rolling left, right, left right, each pointed foot placed perfectly in front of the other. The tattoo of her boot heels echoed amongst the masonry and trees as her passage took her further, deeper into the Cemetery. Iridescent green eyes from beneath long lashes, flicked to the left and right, as she eyed the looming head stones that carved surreal shapes into the rolling fog that enveloped the pathway.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood erect all of a sudden, her nostrils flared in warning as an icy tingle ran down her spine. She quirked a brow stopping, her right hand racing out of her pocket. She was armed. A glinting of silver caught the bedraggled moonlight above as the clouds flitted across the midnight sky. A lady-like dagger, the blade twisted to a fine honed point, the acidic etchings in the blade worn away from age. The hilt of white ivory, rolled fluidly in the palm of her hand as if welcoming an old friend. She continued her walk, her eyes wide open, penetrating the murky darkness that surrounded her, muting her senses, twisting her thoughts. She thought she heard something, her head cocked to the right her gait slowed slightly, but still self assured that she could handle herself. Guttersnipe, cut-throat, vagabond beware, she thought.
Unruly locks of her coppery hair twisted about her alabaster face in which reflected naught of her terror but of her own heightened amusement for she now knew she was not alone. What? Whom? She did not know, but she was going to make sure they got the point first. No pun intended, she sneered to herself. Nipples instantly hardened. Why? She knew not, but the fine points cut into the roughness of the black wool sweater, her breasts testing the tight confines, pulled taunt till the five glass buttons threatened to pop with the strain. Withdrawing her left hand she felt out for the head stones as she now left the path, her boot heels sinking easily into the soft wet earth. Bramble snagged at her legs. She was not as quiet as she wished. A low growl came from her red painted lips as her left hand snaked out onto a weather worn head stone. An Angel, head bowed, wings tilted inwards to shadow the Dead that lay below. Her breasts heaved as she breathed deep. A bitter taste came up over the back of her mouth. Fear. She stopped. Standing bold, upright, shoulders back, she's had enough of this! Her voice was soft as she spoke out, the words traced with an almost ancient lilt that wandered in and out of her words.

"Be you beast or man. Come out now and know outright that I bow to no man or god!"

Head up, chin level, the aristocratic poise was unmistakable. A wolf in sheep's clothing perhaps was she. Her fingernails curled over the top of a head stone ' I. B. Fine' it said in the dim light, the letters chiseled in Roman font into the granite. She began to tap those long tapered fingernails against the hard gray stone, annoyance in each cadence.Twirling the dagger in that of her right hand, the blade glinted silver with each twist.
Unbeknown to her, she had walked almost directly towards him answering a silent calling that had tugged her until she was mere yards away from his presence. There was someone or something lurking in the darkness, she was sure of it. She could feel it's eyes boring into her. She was not afraid. She decided to wait. For the waiting only prolonged the hunt. She waited. And waited...