Michael
I pace the foyer, running my fingers through my hair over and over again as I listen to the voices of Emelda and Alma drifting down the staircase.
Lowe walks in from the kitchen with an armful of firewood, his face drawn with fatigue. I nod at him in greeting as he walks past me toward the sitting room where he kneels, adding more wood to the fire.
It’s a freezing cold morning. Fall has officially bled into winter, and winter came quick. Frost covers the windows as the embers begin to crackle, and the first logs catch fire, but my mind is on the vampire still lying dormant in her bed.
“Alma told me,” Lowe begins, his voice just above a whisper, “that the fact Faye survived the night is telling–it’s a great thing. She has a better chance of recovering.”
My mouth is totally d
