23
KAIN
“She’s immune to us,” I say, leaning my weight on the granite counter. “To all vampires.”
The kitchen feels smaller than it did just yesterday, perhaps because of the way Markula is stalking the tiles. Perhaps because of the shattered cabinets, one edged in vampire blood. At least we cleaned up his head — the coy pond is coming in quite handy this week. Fish can’t become vampires either, and Markula’s instructions to them were clear: eat.
Silas rises from the chair in the living room. Stuffing is visible along the side of one cushion, protruding from a pair of evenly spaced claw marks. The vampire responsible for that had gone into the pond too.
“She’s immune, but she’s not a vampire,” Silas says. “Those wounds on her body are proof enough of that. She’d be healed.”
I nod. On
