Emelda
I’m shaking. I quickly dab spots of dark, vampiric blood from Faye’s neck, my fingers trembling with rage and confusion as I watch her take several shallow breaths in a row.
There’s been absolutely no change in her condition. She’s been still. Cold. Dead, in all honesty. Dying a slow, drawn out death we’ve been staving off like she has a chance of ever recovering.
But now, I watch the skin around the half-moon shaped mark Michael left on her neck turn… a soft pink.
I lean back with the bloody rag clutched between my fingers as her chest rises sharply, holds, and then falls in a whoosh before she settles, a soft moan leaving her pale lips as her body slump against the tangled sheets.
The front door off the foyer opens and shuts with a slam against the cold wind. Alma’s voice
