Night had descended over Chicago like an elegant but oppressive shroud, the city bustling with energy that felt both alive and unsettling. The blacked-out SUV glided to a halt in front of a building that loomed like a behemoth over the street, its facade bathed in flickering shadows that danced beneath the amber streetlights. Anna stepped out first, her long coat billowing in the chilled wind, her presence commanding yet eerily silent. Phara and Theodore followed closely, the heel of Phara's boots clicking on the pavement as she tilted her head upward.
The building was grand yet intimidating—its architecture an amalgamation of Gothic splendor and modern severity. Columns so thick they seemed carved out of stone ages ago flanked the imposing iron doors, which gleamed like obsidian under the dim illumination of the outdoor sconces. The edges of the structure were wrought in intricate designs, gargoyles perched like silent sentries among decorative flourishes that seemed to twist unnaturally, as though they concealed something better left untouched.
Phara's face lit up with a mixture of awe and naive delight, her lips parting slightly as she whispered with astonishment, “This place makes our apartment building in Boston look like a shack.”
Anna barely cast her a glance. With precise and deliberate steps, she drew close enough to lean into Phara, her leather gloves brushing against the younger woman’s elbow as her voice dropped into a blade-sharp warning, “Trust no one when we enter the coven.”
There was something in Anna’s tone that sent an almost imperceptible shiver down Phara’s spine. It wasn’t fear, exactly—it was more akin to the weight of gravity pulling her closer to a secret buried deeply beneath layers she was not meant to uncover. Anna moved ahead of them, her boots making barely a sound, a phantom gliding toward the entrance, leaving Phara and Theodore lingering for a moment.
Phara refused to let doubt touch her excitement. She adjusted her black scarf, smoothing it nervously against her chest, her eyes skimming the shadow-versus-light interplay across the building's heights. Theodore, however, offered no such reverence. His dark eyes darted immediately to the guards flanking the entrance, their stances rigid, inhumanly still—like statues aware of their role as vultures waiting for carrion. His jaw tensed subtly, and the muscles in his neck shifted as his feet carried him forward alongside Phara, his reluctant pace betraying unease.
“This place looks more like a prison,” Theodore muttered, his voice low but dense with meaning.
Ahead of them, Anna approached the doors without hesitation, her dark figure cutting through the glow like a razor slicing silk. The guards stiffened, their movements almost mechanical as they raised their hands and adjusted their stances. Their black uniforms blended seamlessly into the heavy night, but the faint gleam of sigils pinned to their chests caught Theodore's eye, giving him pause. How had he only just noticed? These weren’t ordinary sentries—they were watchers, drawn from a realm far darker than he cared to imagine.
The building loomed ahead, a monolith of glass and steel rising against the starless sky, its towering silhouette giving off an air of quiet authority. The moonlight reflected faintly from the polished surface of the revolving doors, standing sentinel under the watchful eyes of guards flanking either side. As they approached, their presence silent and purposeful, the guards exchanged a subtle nod with the doorman, who straightened sharply at his post. He tilted his chin slightly upward, signaling acknowledgment, and tugged the door open with a practiced air.
"Blake will be meeting you inside and escorting you to Anastasia," the doorman said, his voice steady, though his gaze lingered on Anna longer than necessary—there was an air of recognition flickering in his stare.
Anna barely acknowledged the man with a curt nod before stepping through the wide threshold, her companions—Phara and Theodore—trailing closely behind her like shadows. The lobby inside stretched vast and eerily serene. A hollow silence clung to the air, amplifying every echo of approaching footsteps across the lustrous marble floor. The emptiness, despite the grandeur, unfurled into an uncanny atmosphere, as if the building itself withheld its breath.
Then, with an effortless swish, elevator doors slid open. A figure stepped forward: Blake. His suit was immaculately tailored, the sharp edges of his frame carried with a casual confidence. The smile he offered was disarming, though his eyes betrayed something sharper beneath—a steeliness only visible when one dared to look deeper.
"Anna and her companions," his voice was warm yet measured, "Follow me."
They stepped into the elevator without hesitation, the faint buzz of machinery humming in the enclosed space like a muted whisper. The elevator climbed upward before halting with a mechanical hiss at a floor midway up the building. Doors opened again, spilling them into a sprawling lounge, and suddenly the atmosphere shifted. The room seemed alive, a place where worlds collided—vampires and humans mingling, laughter intertwining with murmurs. Yet as Anna, Phara, and Theodore stepped out, the bubble of sound fractured. Conversations stuttered into silence, heads turning as every pair of eyes locked onto the newcomers. Human gazes curious, judgmental. Vampire stares predatory, scrutinizing. It was palpable, the tension in the room—a fleeting sculpture of fear and fascination, built in the seconds it took them to pass through.
Blake led them like a blade cutting clean through the thick fabric of the crowd, arriving at a set of grand double doors. He pushed them open with a single motion, revealing an office that bore the weight of opulence—ornate furnishings, walls adorned with deep mahogany paneling, and faintly glowing sconces exuding dim golden light. Amid this space stood Anastasia, resplendent as a porcelain queen in a figure-hugging black dress, her alabaster skin seeming to glow under the muted illumination.
Before Anna could utter a word, Anastasia closed the space between them. Her arms wrapped around Anna in a gesture too warm, too intimate for the woman whose presence had brought nothing but turmoil.
"Thank you for coming," Anastasia said, her voice silk woven with earnestness.
But Anna pulled back, her body stiff, her eyes burning with suspicion. "Stop. Let’s go." Her voice cut through the room, a sharp blade with conviction. "I knew this was a trick!"
Anastasia’s smile faded, though her determination remained carved on her delicate features. "It’s not," she insisted, her tone firm enough to conjure doubt. She glanced at Anna’s companions, as though pleading for someone to listen.
Phara crossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. "What’s going on exactly?" Her voice was steady.
Blake stepped forward, clutching a slim tablet in his hand. The screen illuminated his features, casting sharp shadows across his jawline as he turned it toward their direction. Row after row of images splashed across the display—photos of elegant, pale faces, each marked by an air of timelessness. Vampires.
"Anastasia believes vampires are vanishing," Blake explained grimly, his words hanging heavy in the room like smoke.
Anna’s lips curled into a sharp sneer, her distrust surfacing in full force. "Are you sure Anastasia hasn’t simply sent them away herself? It wouldn’t be the first time she’s conveniently shuffled others around."
A cold stillness settled in the room with her accusation. Anastasia’s expression tightened, wounded yet unyielding. With deliberate precision, she took a step closer to Anna, her fingers reaching out as if to break through the walls around her sister. The gesture was tender, almost mournful.
"You’re still stuck in the past," Anastasia murmured, her voice quiet but laden with centuries of weight.
Anna flinched, pulling away from her sister’s touch as if it burned. Her stance sharpened—a warrior drawing lines in the sand. "We’re not taking this case. I want nothing to do with you or this coven, sister."
Her last word was more venom than bond. The room turned cold, suffocating with the history that hung between them—a tangle of deception, wounds unhealed, and trust shattered beyond repair. Anastasia stood frozen, unflinching and yet illuminated by the fragility in her pale blue eyes.
***
The silver moonlight cascaded through the office’s cracked blinds, painting the room in fractured beams like ghostly ribbons stretching across the worn carpet. Phara stood motionless near the desk, her chest rising and falling with an unsteady rhythm as she watched Anna hesitate at the threshold. The tension between them hung heavily in the air, like static before a storm. Phara’s hand clutched Theodore's tightly, his warm, steady grip a reassuring anchor in the chaos swirling around them.
“Anna…” Phara’s voice was soft, measured, though there was pain etched into its edges. Her golden-brown eyes held a kind of pleading that cut through the darkness around them. “She’s your sister. You should help her.”
Anna didn’t respond. Her dark hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, messy and disheveled, as though she’d tugged at it in frustration moments earlier. Her lips parted briefly, but instead of answering, she pulled open the office door and stepped out, letting the clinking of the brass knob echo hollowly in her wake. The lounge beyond was dim, its walls lined with faded burgundy wallpaper that seemed to drink in the light, the air thick with a tension tangible presence that prickled against her skin.
The room was filled with vampires, their predatory elegance evident in the way they lounged with practiced ease. They didn’t move, but their gazes followed Anna like wolves assessing prey. “I need to get away from them,” she muttered under her breath, the statement raw and jagged with frustration.
“Anna. Calm down.” Theodore’s voice carried the weight of authority but none of its sharpness, his tone gentle as he stepped forward. His dark, neatly tailored jacket made him appear composed, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed his unease.
Before anyone could react, the tension snapped like a taut thread. A vampire, his features handsome but cruel, slipped through the cluster of his kin with the ease of a shadow. He was fast—predator fast—and before Phara could react, he was behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist like chains, his breath hot against her neck. Her body stiffened; her heart hammered wildly against her ribcage, louder than a war drum.
“I can feel your power,” he growled against her skin, his voice low and full of dark hunger. The predation in his tone sent chills slithering down Phara’s spine like icy tendrils. “Give me a taste.” Before she could respond, his tongue drew a slow, excruciating caress along the curve of her neck, electric chills rippling across her body. Her breath caught; not in reaction to the touch itself, but to the raw hunger that emanated from him.
Theodore pulled Phara to him, his movements sharp but protective, his arms a fortress against the storm that threatened to tear them apart. His breath came in ragged bursts, filling the space between them with warmth, a contrast to the icy chill clawing its way through the building. His eyes, burning with a desperate mix of fear and fury, locked on Anna and the gleaming blade she held in trembling hands. The knife caught the silver kiss of moonlight, its edge cutting through the darkness with haunting precision.
"Anna, don't do it," Theodore's voice was low, guttural, almost pleading—a tempest trapped within a man. It cracked the silence like shattered glass, but his words seemed fragile against the chaos threatening to consume them all.
Anna stood frozen, her auburn hair framing the hardened expression etched into her pale face. Tears glistened in her eyes like fading embers, but her hand remained firm, steady, the knife poised like judgment itself. Shadows danced over her features, concealing her emotions, her anguish, her rage—or perhaps amplifying them. A long shuddering exhale escaped her lips, the battle waging behind her gaze as every fiber of her being screamed at her to choose a side.
From the corner where the shadows themselves seemed to birth her, the vampire stepped forward. She was ageless, too beautiful to be human, too terrifying to be anything mortal. Her movements were languid, predatory, like a feline sizing up its prey. Her crimson lips parted to release the venom she’d been crafting with every calculated second.
"Do it, traitor," she hissed, her velvety voice slipping through the air like silk wrapped in barbed wire. The vampire’s mocking tone was layered with poison, calculated to infect Anna’s doubt and turn it into malice. Her pale, angular features seemed to glow beneath the moonlight, each shadow highlighting the cruel curve of her smile. "Do him like you did your own mother."
Vampires filled the room—predators cloaked in elegance, their pale skin gleaming like polished marble under the dim light of the crystal chandeliers. Theodore positioned himself firmly in front of Anna and Phara, his movements fluid yet purposeful, like a wolf guarding its pack. His own nature betrayed itself in subtle ways—his pupils elongated into sharp wolfen slits, and a guttural growl rumbled in his throat, low and deliberate, as though warning the room’s occupants to tread carefully.
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A female vampire, poised and eerily graceful, tilted her head as she stepped closer. Her crimson lips curled into a mockery of a smile, revealing dagger-like fangs that gleamed with hunger. Her gaze fixated on Anna, dark eyes void of warmth yet brimming with malice. “What will you do when your sister is no longer there to protect you?” she purred, her voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere like the edge of a blade.
Anna’s posture stiffened, her breath steady but charged with purpose. Locking eyes with the predator, her glare was a silent but burning retaliation, a stubborn flame resisting the encroaching cold. “You don’t want to find out,” Anna spat, her tone a dagger dipped in defiance. Theodore’s hand pressed against her arm, silently guiding her and Phara away from the epicenter of danger. Steadily, he maneuvered them toward the elevator.
The growl that escaped Theodore’s lips, low and primal, resonated in the air like a storm rolling over the horizon. The approaching vampire was slow but deliberate, each step echoing faintly against the polished obsidian floor, as though testing boundaries or daring them not to retreat.
Theodore didn’t waste a second. In a fluid motion, he gripped Anna by the arm and gestured to Phara, pushing the trio toward the elevator tucked in the corner like a shadowy refuge. His chest rose and fell sharply, a telltale sign of suppressed adrenaline, but his voice carried an eerie calm. “Anna,” he said, his tone gravel-worn and sharp, “do you think they mean to harm your sister?”
Anna’s gaze flitted nervously toward the dark figure inching closer, and then to her sister, Phara. Her mind spun with possibilities like scattered puzzle pieces, but she managed a measured reply as the elevator doors closed in with a soft metallic hiss. “Maybe,” she murmured, her knuckles white against the hems of her sleeves. “I’ll do a little research before we leave.”
The hum of the elevator punctured the silence, vibrating through the enclosed steel space. Phara’s breathing hitched, and just as the tension seemed likely to snap, she pulled Anna into a tight embrace, anchoring herself against the chaos. Her whispered words were simple, heartfelt. “Thank you,” she said, holding on tightly as if her sister had become the moon in a starless night.
When the elevator doors finally clicked open, spilling them into the cool night air, Theodore stepped into the harsh glow of the streetlamps with an almost preternatural awareness. His gaze darted across the rows of vehicles lining the curb, their glossy finishes gleaming menacingly under the artificial light. Vans—not just one or two, but a fleet—scattered along the uneven street like jagged teeth in an open maw. Their reinforced frames and tinted windows gave away their true purpose, veiling occupants who watched and waited.
Theodore’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing as though readying for a fight. He didn’t say a word, but his wary glances told Anna all she needed to know. Silently, they climbed into the SUV waiting at the curb, the metallic door clicking shut like the lid of a coffin sealing them in. As the engine roared to life, Theodore glanced at Anna in the rearview mirror. “We’re not out of this yet,” he seemed to silently convey, though his lips didn’t move. The city’s lights blurred outside the windows as they sped back toward the hotel, but the weight of what lay ahead loomed heavy in the air—an unanswered question that rippled with dark intent.
***
Hours go by. As the van sped through the city streets, the anger in the air was intense. The two men, their faces etched with frustration and grief, couldn't shake off their failure they had just experienced. Their fellow colleagues, loyal and dedicated, had paid the ultimate price in their pursuit of a vampire.
The driver clenched his fists around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. The weight of responsibility weighed heavily upon him. “I can’t believe we were attacked by that thing. We need to remove their bodies off the street before someone calls the cops,” the man in the passenger seat declared, his voice laden with urgency.
The driver's response was a mix of resignation and worry. “Fine, Dr. Specker will not be happy about this,” he muttered, his voice filled with trepidation. They both knew that the consequences of their failure would not be taken lightly by their enigmatic employer.
Without wasting another moment, the driver veered down a street where the lifeless bodies of their fallen comrades still lay on the blood-stained sidewalk. As they stepped out of the van, a woman approached, her gaze fixed upon the gruesome scene before her. The driver, his face hardened by the events that had transpired, glanced at his companion, and uttered two words: “Deal with her.”
The other man, seemingly unfazed by the sinister task at hand, approached Melissa with a calm yet authoritative demeanor. Sensing her intention to call for help, he gently placed his hand on her arm and spoke in a soothing tone, “Miss, there is no need to call law enforcement. We work for the city, we will handle it.”
Melissa, her eyes filled with suspicion, hesitated for a moment. "I think I will still call them,” she replied, her voice wavering with uncertainty. Deep down, she sensed that something was amiss.
In an instant, the man swiftly snatched the cell phone from her grasp and, without a moment's hesitation, shot her with a tranquilizer gun. As her body slumped to the ground, he effortlessly lifted her and carried her to the back of the van. The driver, his face a mask of detachment, disposed of the woman's phone in a nearby trash can. With the last body now loaded, they climbed back into the van and drove away from the scene.
The Driver and his coworker, their faces etched with weariness, pulled into the hidden underground garage of what appeared to be an old, abandoned office building. Little did outsiders know it was actually the secret medical facility of Dr. Specker. As they parked and stepped out of the van, a Woman stood waiting for them, her eyes filled with anticipation.
“Did you get the vampire the doctor requires?” she asked, her voice tinged with urgency.
The Driver shook his head, a mix of disappointment and caution in his eyes. “No, she wasn't alone,” he replied, his voice heavy with the weight of the encounter.
A furrow formed between the Woman's brows as she inquired further, “Where are the other two?”
The Driver turned his gaze towards the rear of the van, pointing to the lifeless bodies that lay within. “They were killed by the vampire's partners,” he explained, his tone somber.
Curiosity mingled with dread as Melissa approached the open van door. The other man joined her, his hands trembling slightly as he lifted the lifeless bodies to reveal the gruesome extent of their injuries. One man bore the unmistakable marks of a savage attack, his throat torn open, while the other oozed blood from his eyes and ears, a sight that sent shivers down their spines.
The Woman's eyes widened in horror as she turned to the Driver. “Did vampires do this?” she questioned, her voice barely a whisper.
The other man, his face pale, pointed to the horrific scene before them. “That one came from a wolf, and the other...I have no idea,” he replied, his voice trembling.
The Woman's skepticism was evident as she scoffed, “There are no wolves in Chicago.”
The Driver interjected with conviction, “I believe it was a werewolf.”
A moment of stunned silence enveloped the group before Melissa burst into a disbelieving laughter. “Really, a werewolf?” she exclaimed, unable to fathom the notion.
But the other man, his voice tinged with a mix of fear and acceptance, countered, “Well, we are currently catching vampires, so it's not so far-fetched to consider that other supernatural beings exist.”
The Woman's laughter faded, replaced by a hardened resolve. “Burn the bodies,” she commanded firmly, her eyes firmly fixed on the deceased. “But save Melissa for the vampire in the basement.”
The Woman, walked away from the van. The two men, sweat trickling down their foreheads, continued to unload cargo. A sense of urgency hung in the air, a tension that seemed to vibrate with every move.
“When you are done, I got the address for the vampire's hotel,” The Woman's voice cut through the silence, her words laced with determination.
The Driver, a rugged man with a hardened expression, replied, “We are done for the night.”
But Melissa was not one to be dismissed so easily. She turned abruptly, her eyes burning with an intensity that sent shivers down the spine. With a swift movement, she grabbed the man by the face, her grip firm and unyielding. “You are done, when I say so,” she asserted, her voice dripping with authority. “Now unload the van. I will text you the address shortly.”
The force of her actions caused the man to stumble backward, crashing onto the cold, concrete floor. As he lay there, momentarily stunned, Melissa strode away, her heels clicking against the ground, echoing throughout the desolate garage. She made her way to the elevator.
Meanwhile, the other man, fear etched across his face, rushed to help his fallen comrade. “We are in too deep to back now,” he muttered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and resignation. The Driver, his eyes filled with a steely resolve, nodded in agreement. There was no turning back now, no room for doubts or hesitation.
Together, they resumed their task of unloading the van. The bodies, shrouded in darkness, were carefully lifted and carried towards the building's crematory. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of their actions weighing heavily on their conscience. The silence was haunting as they approached the crematory, the flames waiting eagerly to consume their secrets.
With a deep breath, The Driver and the man placed the bodies inside, their hearts heavy with regret and uncertainty. As the flames flickered to life, engulfing the remains, a sense of finality settled over them.
***
At the dead of night, Anastasia sat in the dimly lit confines of her sleek, modern office, an air of smoldering tension thickening the space. The faint hum of a desk lamp bathed her sharp features in a honeyed glow, while shadows crept and danced along the walls as if conjured by unseen spirits. Blake, her ever-present assistant, stood a respectful pace away, his tablet glowing faintly in his hand, illuminating his pensive expression. The muted tap, tap, tap of his fingers scrolling through the screen briefly punctured the silence before his voice, low and measured, broke through the atmosphere.
“You’re down to just a few appointments, Anastasia,” Blake murmured without meeting her eyes. His tone was crisp yet subdued—a man used to treading carefully around dangerous waters.
Anastasia exhaled sharply, letting her frustration surge to the surface unchecked. Her hand slammed down on her polished desk, the sound reverberating like a clap of thunder in the quiet room. Her amber eyes blazed as she leaned forward, the fine fabric of her dark blouse rustling with the movement. “I can’t believe Anna didn’t care about the missing vampires,” she hissed, her voice raw with disbelief and something more—a twinge of hurt, perhaps, buried and unacknowledged.
Blake sighed, his gaze momentarily flicking toward her before returning to the tablet as if that small rectangular screen could shield him from her wrath. “The vampires haven’t exactly been kind to Anna over the years,” he began cautiously.
Anastasia stood near her desk, one hand tracing the spine of a weathered book—a nervous instinct she didn’t bother to stifle. Her presence was commanding as always, yet there was an air of fragility, a quiet storm that brewed behind her steel-blue eyes.
Blake stood a few paces away, looking down at the glowing screen of his tablet. His expression was measured, and though his brows furrowed slightly, he concealed his discomfort well. The office was heavy with tension and the scent of sandalwood from the candle Anastasia had lit earlier—a ritual she claimed was calming, though tonight it seemed to do little good. Neither the assistant nor the boss had spoken for minutes, the silence stretching like tightly-tuned wire until Anastasia abruptly shattered it with words sharp enough to wound.
"Blake," she began, her voice low but laced with a warning edge that left no room for misunderstanding, "you speak too freely on this subject." She turned to fix him with a pointed stare, her fingers still resting against the book as if its pages could anchor her. "Don’t speak as if you knew my family... You know nothing."
Blake shifted his stance imperceptibly, his tablet held tighter now, almost as though it were a shield. Outside the office window, the moon hung suspended in the ink-black sky, casting silver light upon the panes like a voyeur, fascinated by the unraveling of Anastasia’s secrets.
"I thought," she continued, her voice softening with an eerie kind of sorrow, "that after my mother was charged she would be killed. I reported her crimes—every sick, twisted thing she did—to the authorities. But they did nothing." The word came out bitter, venomous, thick with decades of frustration. Anastasia’s knuckles whitened as her grip tightened against the edge of her desk, the wood biting into her skin.
Blake kept silent, wise enough to let her speak uninterrupted. He wasn’t certain if the tremor in her voice came from anger, from grief, or from some haunted place he dared not pry into.
"And then there was Anna..." Anastasia nearly whispered the name, her lips trembling as she spoke it. She closed her eyes for a moment, her lashes catching the faint gleam of tears she refused. “Anna was the only one of my siblings who came back for me,” she said, her voice lowering as if the admission carried the weight of chains. “By ending my mother’s terror…” She trailed off, her jaw tightening, her lips pressing into a pale line.
“…she freed me from her control,” Anastasia finished, her tone anchored in the shadow of an unspoken grief. The way she said the word "freed" was peculiar—tinged with an ambiguity Blake couldn’t quite grasp. Was she grateful… or resentful?
Blake glanced up from his tablet, watching her carefully, but he knew better than to interrupt. Her office, though draped in the elegance of dark woods, leather-bound tomes, and antique trinkets, felt colder now, as though something unseen had slithered into the room unnoticed. Was it merely her words? Or was it what those words meant—that Anastasia’s past was a landscape riddled with specters that haunted her every thought?
“Anastasia…” he began tentatively, but the look she gave him made his words choke and dissipate before they could form. Blake stood to the side, his tablet clutched awkwardly in his hands. The screen cast eerie, artificial light onto his furrowed brow and pallid complexion. His voice trembled when he spoke, cutting through the silence like a blade dulled by guilt. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, the words stiff on his tongue, barely above a mutter. “I wasn’t aware.”
Anastasia’s lips curled into a bitter, mirthless smile—a sharp contrast to the hollowness lingering behind her gaze. She didn’t bother looking at him. Instead, her focus shifted to the door across the room, its black wood imposing. With a sudden intensity, she raised her hand in its direction, her fingers trembling ever so slightly.
“All vampires,” she began, her voice low and weighted, each syllable carrying the burden of years that should have been lost to time. “All vampires think my mother was great—some twisted legend brought to life. They glorify her bloodlust, romanticize her atrocities. But they didn’t know her like I did. She was no savior. She wasn’t even human… She was a monster, Blake. Nothing more. A monster who savored the taste of power as much as she savored the blood of mortals. And she became a vampire—not out of fate or design—but by her own atrocity.”
Blake shifted on his feet, glancing at her as if tempted to speak, though his lips remained sealed. Perhaps it was the weight of her presence, or the depth of her confession, that turned his tongue mute. The silence bent tighter around them, turning the office into a suffocating cocoon of grim revelations.
“She bathed in the wrong woman’s blood,” Anastasia continued, leaning back against the high-backed chair like a queen weary of her throne. Her talon-like nails drummed rhythmically against the lacquered surface, each tap a heartbeat that did not belong to her. The room darkened with the bitterness in her tone. “An innocent woman who was a vampire.”
Her hands gripped the edge of her desk now, white-knuckled and trembling as though she were trying to hold herself together, trying to keep the past locked away where it couldn’t hurt her any longer. But the words spilled from her lips like blood. “She turned me into a vampire, so I could do her bidding. What they think of Anna,” she murmured, her words enunciated with a precision that suggested they had been rehearsed, “they should feel the same way about me.” The statement hung there, rebounding against the walls of the room like the toll of a distant bell.
