It was late in the evening. The fire crackled beside the long lake that led all the way back to the slums of Birmingham, where she came from. She wasn't a Shelby. She wasn't a Grey, either. There is no link to the largest crime family in Birmingham. A woman with a taste for blood and a talent that these families listened to and followed, coming to her when Polly was too busy for their whims.

Aberama was a man mourning. A man mourning the death of his son, who he saw being tortured and crucified by the Billy Boys. He was angry over it, his sadness turned to grief, his grief to anger and his anger to blood-lust and vengeance. His son was his only hope that something good could come from the life they lived. Bonnie was gone, dead.

Aberama was also affected by inflicting wounds himself. His Romanian blood made him return to the safety of wagons and the unknown. The healers are working, and he was happy to say he was doing so fast. Eager to hunt down the men who murdered his son.

As the fire crackled, their mischievous woman sat. Guarding the greiving man who was leaning against his wagon and gripping his side. Watching her. He looked a mess, pale and wincing but strong and resilient. What he was known for. Aberama had grown curious over the woman. She was always so silent, as if listening to something nobody else could hear. Watching the birds and the way the wind blew. Not to mention how gorgeous she was.

With an uneasy step, he walked towards her and her small fire. Her coat was thick and warm while the fire crackled, but she still seemed to shiver against the growing cold. She wasn't used to nights on the road. Aberama grunted as he gently lowered himself into the grass, sitting beside her and the warm fire.

"Mr. Shelby says you can do things." He rasped darkly.