Emelda

I’m shaking. I quickly dab spots of dark, vampiric blood from Faye’s neck, my fingers trembling with rage and confusion as I watch her take several shallow breaths in a row.

There’s been absolutely no change in her condition. She’s been still. Cold. Dead, in all honesty. Dying a slow, drawn out death we’ve been staving off like she has a chance of ever recovering.

But now, I watch the skin around the half-moon shaped mark Michael left on her neck turn… a soft pink.

I lean back with the bloody rag clutched between my fingers as her chest rises sharply, holds, and then falls in a whoosh before...