Call it a vamping intuition.
* * * *
“They’ll be back,” I lamented, once we were inside the kitchen again. “They keep saying it—we all must die.”
Mama Bolinski squinted her eyes and pursed her lips. “Then they all must die first.”
She was right, of course. No more reasoning with them. That tactic was pointless. It was kill or be killed, and as I looked around the table at my family, at my flesh and stagnant blood, at their fierce determination, I smiled and nodded. “All of them,” I agreed, “every last one.”
“But how?” asked Igor. “They know about the traps now.”
I grinned. “So we build a better trap, then.”
“And what do we use instead of cheese to catch these rats?” asked Papa, his smile now matching my own until it was contagious, the long row of smiles fairly lighting up the room.
