“Yes, my dearest,” he said, “drink. Drink deeply and we
shall share eternity together you and I.” She paid no
attention to him. “Remove the stake my darling,” he
instructed, “and together we shall travel the world.”
After a moment he realized that her intent was to drain
him. “You bitch,” he said quietly, “how patient you
were.” When finally, his last drop had been taken, his
body withered and turned to ash. Gathering up the corners
of the sheet, she opened the window wide and cast him to
the night breezes.
She sat naked in the middle of the bed, drawing the covers
in tightly around her. She could feel the poison she had
sucked from him begin to take hold. Her heart slowed.
Her blood thickened. Its luscious red grew darker and
darker until it became the black of the tattooist’s ink. Her
fingers trembled, clenching and unclenching
uncontrollably. The flesh of her arms, her legs, her
shoulders, were aflame, yet ice cold. She felt as if she was
sculpted from hardened steel, like the sword that had slain
her husband. Her heart stopped. Her blood turned foul.
She was the weapon now. She was the killer. And as she
died, she felt the new rush of power and immortality surge
through her. Just before dawn, she killed a young village
girl, placed the body in her own bed, and without a single
glance over her shoulder, left the tavern burning behind
her.
She quickly learned that it was easier to hide in the chaos
and confusion of the cities that were growing across the
continent. Amidst the squalor, disease and filth, death
constantly swirled around the living. As she mastered new
skills required for the urban hunt and kill, she also became
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