Lucian did not like to waste. He had knelt by Agnes Holloway's bedside, pressing a hand against her chest as he drank. Her eyes had opened once, cloudy with terror, before fluttering into stillness.
The blood was weak, sour with age. Not enough to still his hunger, but enough to sharpen it. He leaned close, listening to the last whisper of her heartbeat, and when it stopped, he did not close her eyes.
Monsters do not pray for the dead.
He left her there, in the hollow silence of her house, and slipped into the night in search of something stronger. Something that would burn in his veins and remind him why he endured eternity.
He thought of the girl.
Clara