Executive Director Martin forced a scented handkerchief to his nose as he peered into the mug in front of him. Irritable, Martin hissed and sprayed more perfume in the air.
In the most horrible way possible, he had lost taste for fresh blood.
Never had he thought Wednesday morning would be spent sitting before a scratchy and insane looking Pilotel. The woman glanced at the cup in front of her, the steaming milk smelled pungent to her as she itched her wrist.
The one Sullivan drank from, was red two days before. All of a sudden she woke up Tuesday morning at City S—which she had run to hoping to leave the continent—and found her wrist rotten. Wednesday morning, it had maggots crawling from it and she had to hold a wet towel over it.
Even that didn't make it bearable, but only hid the disgust from others and from Pilotel herself who had vomited so hard, her insides felt empty. Left with no choice, she called Martin whom she felt was closer to Sullivan.
