CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Polidori was hesitant to cut into the tender flesh of the young Kathleen Griffith on his slab. His grip trembled and the scalpel clattered to the floor. He didn’t bother picking it up.
He knew she was dead, but he also knew the vampyre’s mark meant her death might not be permanent. Perhaps it was best to wait.
After all, he’d seen the three Fairbank men in various levels of postmortem decay. Andrew Fairbank had been beyond putrid, his flesh ripped and rotted and much of it missing, smearing the cobbles of London streets as he’d sought out his family members. And yet, far beyond his grave, his body had become revitalized, the muscle and sinew renewed. From witness descriptions of him at the Banqueting House and now at the Griffith residence, there was little doubt of
