Disclaimer: I do not own Skinwalkers nor its characters. They belong to LGF, After Dark, and whoever else screwed the movie up.

Note: Script influences.

Winter

He was so very cold.

It had never been like this before. He had never felt this way before. Not even before the taste of fresh human awoke his senses, not even before the sweetness of blood fueled his cravings.

It had never been so cold.

It had never been cold at all.

Especially after the hunt and the kill and the feeding. After Varek.

Especially after the meeting and the turning and the feeding. After Sonja.

Especially after Sonja.

It had never been cold. Not with a wildfire beneath your body, flames lapping at your skin. Not with the fiery passion fueling every move she made, every kill she laid at his feet.

And he had gone the extra mile to repay her. He had her fire fueling him, and he was alive all over again, reborn again with her own rebirth, and he was doing everything he could to keep her heat. Keep her spark all his own, and never let it go, never let it flicker or fade to an ember.

It had never been so cold.

Not with his wild one. Not with his young one. Not with the beauty of her viciousness; huntress always at his heels, almost catching him and almost escaping him when he turned the tables on her – only to see if she ever could escape him just to come back so he would love her more and never let her go.

It could never be so cold with her.

It could never be cold at all. It never had been.

Everything burned in their wake, and the flames danced in her eyes and hair. How she would shine with his half-smiles and affections; how she would glow in the flames. Oh, how her spark burned in those days.

It could never be cold. Not with her spark. Not with his little wildfire beside him.

There were wildfires to warm Caleb. He ran from them; they were his greatest fear. He could only see his spark, his wildfire burning out of control. He could see her features melting away to the skeletal remains of flesh – diseased and flawed by design.

But she had been born for something better. He had given her something better; it was never her design. She was too perfect, and he couldn't bear to see her dying of disease and decay.

His spark burned out. There weren't even dying embers to warm him.

Fire was his greatest fear. It always left ashes in its wake.

And she was so very cold.