bed. The girl writhed with such velocity that I had no
choice but to mollify the fit by squeezing her jugular, a
newborn vampire’s most sensitive area. Sara’s thrashing,
indeed, was similar to that of the mother who now stood
watching EMTs take her child to the morgue. The mother
did not know the pain of seeing her child transform and
die a fiend, like Mrs. Holstadtler with Sara, but she did
know the pain of losing a child far too early. Sometimes I
wonder what is harder: Seeing your child die in front of
you without being able to stop death or hearing that your
child is dead without having been there to protect it. The
Holstadtler’s saw their daughter change, bear fangs, and
die by stake. However, these two unsuspecting souls did
not see their child’s death but were viewing the aftermath.
I couldn’t possibly imagine what it would be like for them,
though I did understand the Holstadtler’s pain intimately.
The EMTs lifted a covered body onto the gurney.
The frame of the child was smaller than anticipated. Much
smaller. Head to toe, the body buckled in only took up
half the space. This child was younger than Sara by about
five to eight years. It was clear to me that Sara was not the
only child to succumb to her Transylvanian Master. For
some reason, that fiend was praying on children. But why?
I knew I could not leave New Haven just yet.
* * *
I exited the hotel in jeans, brown suede mid-boots,
and a black hip-length double-breasted wool coat that had
all four holes buttoned. The winter air bit hard against the
skin, like a hunger-starved feral cat after mice. I slipped on
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