She seemed blessedly unburdened with the curse of my own existence, though her face paled far more than normal after the rush of the birthing was done. There were no lethal fangs in her mouth, no biting instinct when she fed. Her dark brown hair was so soft to touch, so perfect. She was more mortal than even I had hoped. I could sense the other in her, but only as a distant genetic reminder, an instinct, a Family sense. She would likely develop some of the gifts as she grew older, but for the time, she was not unlike any other infant in the world.
It was well into the night, several months after the birth, I sat outside our home in the light of a half moon, cradling Francis in my arms and savoring the soft night air. I felt them come, and shifted a little, my eyes scanning the trees. Moir
