Revenant: A Terri McCanri Chronicle

by Kelly Heimdale

The pistol rocked against its own blast in my hand, the echo of the boom making my ears
ring. Once more, and then again, I fired. Bullets to their skulls splattered blackened goo and bits
of brain matter, three bodies dropping forward on top of each other.
“Breathe. Just breathe.” I whispered to myself, my panting ragged and deep.
I could not stay long. Surely the others would have heard the noise.
With trembling limbs and a heartbeat more powerful than a jackhammer, I crawled out of
the hole in the wall I’d fallen into. My dad’s old Colt shook in my hands so hard the pieces
rattled. A true miracle that I could even shoot straight.
An old woman, ten year old boy, and a tall hillbilly with one hell of a beer gut had grayed
skin, veins close to the surface almost black, and their eyes pale with death. Covered in grime
and blood, clothes torn, not a one left without a bite or a long, gnarly draw of human fingernails.
My left arm stung beneath the half roll of gauze and a whole tube of Neosporin I’d
wrapped around my bicep. Switching the forty-five into my left hand, I grabbed my arm and
gently held, afraid to scratch at the stinging wound. The lack of numbness or blackened vessels
was a good sign after four hours.
“Either I’m immune, or it doesn’t affect everyone,” I mumbled as I scanned the inside of
the barn. “Huh. Doesn’t affect everyone, would denote at least partial immunity. I guess I should
just thank God for Jujitsu and the police academy.”
Something fluttered behind me, rusty hinges creaking. I spun, combat boots digging into
the muddy floor, sidearm following my eyes and trained on the source of noise. A barn owl
perched on an old stall door.
Screeee! Screeee!
Even looking right at the bird, its screech made me jump.
“Shut up!” I growled under my breath. “Or you’re next!”

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 My century-old shotgun lay between the corpses and the main door, which sat half open
in its slide rails. I did not holster the pistol until reaching my other weapon. Picking it up, the
click of the Winchester’s lever ejected the spent 12 gage shell, the bright red thing hurling past
my head.
Empty.
With quaking hands I reloaded the shotgun, wondering why my father’s old guns fared
far better than the modern police issue weapons in my cruiser. Then again, he made a living as a
gunsmith. Our small town sheriff’s office and one or two weekends a year training with swat in
the big city had turned out not to do us a lick of good. I hated to admit it, but the only thing
keeping me alive were all the monster movies I had watched longer than I could remember.
“Should have stayed at dad’s shop.” I worked the lever to chamber a shell. “But Terri,
we’re being overrun!” I mocked my father’s voice, wringing my hand around the pistol grip
stock. My lips quivered listening to the words coming out of my mouth. “Asshole.”
The sight of the old zombie woman draped limply over the boy reminded me of seeing
mom and my only brother in that same exact position fifteen years ago, killed by a burglar. Dad
became so distant and drunk after that, we grew to genuinely hate each other. I don’t even know
why I bothered to check in on him after all this started. Still…
“He didn’t have to blow the shop up.”
Stopping, waiting for my huffing and trembling to end, it only became worse. Needed to
keep moving.
Stars twinkled in the post-dusk hour of a moonless, cloudless night, making everything
harder to see. I hid behind the barn door to scan the gravel lot and all its equipment, trash, and
tractors. Movement to the north. A pair of zombies were trying to crawl through a barbed wire
fence, but their clothes were stuck. Even so, from thirty yards away they tried to reach out for
me. Nothing else on the horizon.
Except that old Jeep Cherokee across the lot. It looked to be in good condition, doors
closed, tires full, the body a bit rusted and beat up, windows semi-clean, and covered in dried
mud splatter. Farm vehicles were supposed to look that way.
An odd thought passed, making me look down at the tattered, dirty, and ruined black-on-
blue sheriff’s uniform. I had been wearing it for thirty eight hours straight, through the
destruction of town, muddy fields, two fires, blood splatter, and a pile of compost comprised

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mostly of cow manure I’d crawled through. All I wanted was a long bath, to shave my legs, and
some clean clothes. Also, I couldn’t seem to keep my hair in its tail no matter how hard I tried.
“Truck looks nicer than I do. It better have keys.”
Slinging my Winchester over a shoulder, I pulled the Colt from my hip to do a quick
check of the vehicle. Clear, with keys in the glove box.
“Please…” I prayed, eyes closed, while I slid the key into the ignition. Nothing happened.
I wanted to cry, but bit my lip instead. “Come on.” Again, nothing happened. Growling, I banged
my forehead on the steering wheel. “You piece of shit! Start!”
Dead.
Just like the other twenty-something cars I had tried. Just like every single person in a
thirty mile radius. Where the hell was back up? Where was the National Guard? Swat? I’d even
take a truckload of foul-mouthed hillbillies at this point. For one reason or another, all phone
lines and communications had been cut off. Power mostly gone except for the occasional
generator. Every last vehicle sat dead as a doornail. All roads out had been blocked by various
means (trees down, bridges out, cars wrecked, etc.), and somehow trekking through the fields
and the woods seemed only to lead me in a big loop right back to town, despite my historically
impeccable sense of direction. It was as though some unknown force or act of God kept the area
detached from the world.
A tear rolled down my dirty cheek. Banging my head again, I whined softly through grit
teeth, then tried to growl the pain away. Another tear. Screaming my rage at the Jeep and
punching the dashboard, I started to pout.
“Please…”
One last turn of the key yielded nothing still.
Crying, I sat for a while, trying to work up the courage to get back out there. Two
zombies were nearby, only sixty yards away, and more would come to the sound of my gunfire a
few moments ago.
“God help me,” I sobbed. “Please.”
Tap-tap on the driver’s window.
Adrenaline slammed me back into gear so hard it physically hurt. It also hurt when I
threw myself across the console into the other seat, pistol aimed at someone’s head.

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 Olive skin accented by green eyes and dark, curly hair neatly rolled behind the head, set
around a pale face with a nose that could not have been more Greek. Medium height and a
slender, lovely build, she wore leather clothing that might have been a modern take on full body
armor. She smiled softly with ruby lips and a sparkle in her eye that I could not distinguish
between a noble lady and a predator. Waving, her gloved hand held a long blade with a pearl
handle I recognized as a mid-1800s French bayonet. It might as well have been a freaking sword.
Behind her in the distance, the two zombie teenagers still stuck on the fence now slumped
headless and motionless.
“I will not bite, police girl,” She purred, eyes scanning me. “You have been bitten. Yet I
see no sign of infection. That is good. I do not have to kill you.”
She spoke so proper and clean. The accent was New England with a hint of something
European deep in the inflections of her words.
I dropped everything, head and pistol included. Taking in a long, hard breath, I sighed
and smiled.
“Thank you, God!” I whispered to the roof of the jeep.
Too tired and lazy to get up, I fiddled my foot at the door handle until it opened.
The woman offered her hand. She had two matching bayonets, both now sheathed at her
hips beside a matched pair of engraved revolvers. They looked like 1880’s Colts and were in
immaculate condition.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked, taking her hand.
She pulled me out of the Jeep with surprising strength. We stood the same height, though
I at least appeared slightly more muscular because of my training. As slender as her body seemed
to be, she didn’t even budge or lean an inch pulling me out of the vehicle—only her arm moved.
“My name is Astra, Sheriff McCanri,” She replied with a nod of her head. “I work with,
shall we say, an anonymous party interested in what is happening here.”
I almost asked how she knew my name before I remembered it was sewn into my
bulletproof vest.
“It’s deputy, actually. So you’re, what? Hunting these things?” I asked.
“Something of that nature. I search for the one responsible. You appear no worse for
wear. Weary? Hungry?”

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 “No. Not tired. I…” I rubbed my aching skull. Must have slammed it on the door frame
inside the Jeep. “Found a cozy hiding spot this morning. Slept a lot longer than I intended. I’m
starving. And I could use a bath.”
“There is a convenience store just down the road. It happens to be in the direction I am
going. I could use a hand. A sheriff’s deputy would make an excellent partner during these
difficult situations.”
“Situations? You do this all the time?” I nearly choked on the idea, raising my eyebrows
at her.
“Admittedly, this is a particularly severe occurrence. Rare, almost never happens. But, to
answer your question, yes. I handle things of this nature.”
“Where are you from?” I wondered aloud.
“Originally? Greece. But that was a very long time ago. Come, Deputy. We must leave.
More mortui viventes are coming.”
“More what?” I asked curiously.
She started walking down the long gravel driveway, and ultimately toward the paved
backroad a quarter mile away. I caught up quickly.
“That is plural for mortuus vivens. You know them as the living dead. Perhaps you would
rather the simpler mortuus. Or French? Mort vivant. I believe that is the correct terminology. I
have not spoken French or Latin in some time.”
“You speak Latin and French? Wow. I still have trouble with Latin-American Spanish.”
“Also, my native Greek, as well as German, Portuguese, Spanish, and a few others.”
I huffed, amused. “A woman of the world.”
I saw her smirk from the corner of my eye. “An interesting compliment.”
“My name’s Terri, by the way.”
“As you wish, Deputy. I shall call you Terri.”
“You’re weird, you know that? I mean, thanks.”
* * *
We walked for miles until we reached Bob’s Stop ‘N Go, a gas station and diner on the
furthest edge of town. After a short clean up in the ladies room, we sat in a back corner booth
away from the windows as though waiting on the waitress to come find us. I pigged out on jerky

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and trail mix, washing it down with warm Gatorade, while Astra inspected the wound on my
arm.
“Bob used to sell t-shirts and overalls, too,” I informed her. “Don’t know why. They
never actually sold. But I sure could use clean clothes right about now.”
“The wound has stopped bleeding, and you are not infected.” She told me, starting a fresh
bandage.
“You said that earlier. Why aren’t I infected? Am I immune?”
“Doubtful. Immunity is an illusion. Infection is not. Like any other disease, some people
simply have the immune system strong enough to fight it off. For instance, once while traveling
Africa, I met a man and his daughter immune to Ebola. The virus had killed half their village.
They were… excellent dinner hosts.”
The way she said dinner hosts sounded odd. Almost as if the words should have been
delicious. An unsettling thought I really didn’t need to have.
“You fear the mortuus, though not enough to panic. As well, you seem to hold no love for
this town. No ties. Great Strength. Good training as a survivalist and sheriff. You would make an
excellent protégé in my line of work, Terri. With some preparation, of course.”
Another word that did not quite sound just right. Preparation. It came across as though
trying not to sound like a ritual. Protégé, however, fit perfectly. Enthusiastic, even. I had to admit
that her proposal intrigued me.
“That a job offer?” I asked. “Looks like I’m going to need one after this. And you’re
right. I’m not really afraid of them. I’m just… not in a hurry to be on the menu, know what I
mean?”
“I understand completely.” She finished with the bandage and looked me in the eyes.
“Then it is settled. You will accompany me when this is finished.”
“I’ll have to stick around long enough to tell the authorities what happened… Assuming
someone is coming.”
“They aren’t coming, Terri.” Her light manner changed, deepened, and became very
serious. I sat back and took a drink to quell my nerves over the look I was getting from her. “The
powers that be know how dangerous this situation is. That is why people like me are sent in to
stop it. Once the culprit is dealt with, they will move in under the guise of CDC and the FBI, and
will cleanse this town with fire. Most likely they will claim it was caused by a random deadly

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disease brought in by who-knows-how. Or perhaps they will blame the fire on the fertilizer plant
explosion.”
“You mean the abandoned plant south of town?” I asked. “There’s nothing there. It can’t
explode.” The answer dawned on me and I glanced down. “Oh. Got’cha.”
She continued, possibly amused. “The likelihood of it even reaching the news is almost
nil. If you stay, they will kill you. They do not need loose ends.”
I swallowed my nerves down a second time and took a long breath. “Well that sucks.
Guess I’m coming with you, then.”
“We must be going, deputy. We must finish this mission.”
“Who’s the culprit, anyway?” I asked as we exited the front door.
“A vampire,” she said nonchalantly over a shoulder.
My eyes bulged and feet froze in place. “A vam-vamp-vampire? Excuse me?”
She stopped to face me.
“Yes. Of course. You have dealt with the mortui viventes since… When did you say this
began? Yesterday morning at nine am? That is nearly forty hours. And you somehow still
question the existence of vampires?”
I blinked, my mind conjuring every dark vampiric nightmare from every monster movie
I’d ever seen. For an inexplicable reason, in that one moment, it just felt right. The idea of a
vampire creating this mess just seemed to fit and make perfect sense.
“Are you done panicking, deputy? I would hate to leave you here.”
Shaking my head, I forced my feet to move, needing this nightmare to be over.
“Yeah. Sure.” I rubbed my temples. “Why not vampires, too?”
“Complaining does not become you, deputy. Hold that gun tight and keep your wits. You
may survive this yet.”
* * *
“The graveyard. Of course he’s held up at the graveyard,” I complained. “Why can’t he
be hidden somewhere nice and cheery and brightly lit?”
Hillside Graveyard. Tucked between two short hills and spattered with trees, it was big
enough to hold the town’s dead for the last four generations, but far enough off the main road to
be forgotten day-to-day. We were still a quarter mile away, approaching from the west side.
“Is there anywhere for him to hide, deputy?” Astra asked.

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 “There’s the caretaker’s house at the far end. We can reach it from the other road. He’s
got a good-sized equipment shed, too. The funeral home, though, is in town. In ruins, I might
add.”
“Yes. I cleansed the town looking for him. Otherwise I would have found you last night.
His trail was difficult to track. He’s erratic.”
“You sleep during the day, too?” I wondered.
“Mortui viventes and vampires both are most active at night. Trails are colder to follow in
the day than at night.”
It was the truth, but only half of it. She was hiding something.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“No. He is young, new. Most likely turned and left on his own by another, older vampire
who passed through recently. Vampires create chaos for sport. New bloods can be difficult. As
you have seen with your own eyes.”
“How does a zombie get made, anyway?”
“From feeding on a victim who is at the edge of death. That is the quickest way, a
mistake only made by new bloods. Or fools. Well, there is a bit more to it than that. Producing
one willingly requires practice and a cognizant choice. I assume our new blood made the first
one by mistake, then became obsessed with recreating it. Thus, our current predicament. That is
good for us.”
“Why is that good for us?”
“He will be drunk with his new powers, and either will not be able to sense us coming, or
will not perceive us as a threat.” She sighed, eyebrows arching slightly. “I hate rogue new
bloods. Such a bother. A sign at the funeral home said Mr. Hinkle is the caretaker?”
“Yes. Did you destroy it? That place always gave me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Be warned, deputy. If he is elderly, vampirism will have given his youth back. He will
be closer to his prime of life.”
I looked at her questioningly, a recent memory flashing by. “Come to think of it. A few
nights ago, I was working a double shift, one of our night deputies was sick. I stopped at Bob’s
for a snack and gas when I saw some guy driving by in Old Man Hinkle’s pickup. I swear to
God, he looked like a thirty-year old version of Hinkle. I thought it was a son or grandson that

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he’d never mentioned. I mean, the man’s resemblance was insane. But I never thought much of
it.”
“Is that it?” She asked, pointing across the graveyard.
We were almost there. The little white house had its windows boarded up. The shed in
the rear stood open, most of the tools jumbled into a scattered mess. Astra stopped us behind a
tree.
“Have you been inside before?” She whispered.
“Late last year,” I answered in kind. “His wife committed suicide, as old as she was.
Never figured out why. There’s two bedrooms, the kitchen and living area are one open space,
one bath room. It’s a small house and he’s kind of a pack rat. Not a lot of space to move around.
He’s got trails through the junk. Oh, and the back door is jammed way too tight in its frame
because the house settled. Won’t be going that way. That was last year, but he doesn’t change
much.”
“Good. It will be easier to trap him. Stay behind me, and do not let him outside.”
I pulled the shotgun stock to my shoulder, ready to move in my best, albeit limited, swat
training style. She pulled her two bayonets.
“Really? Swords?”
“To be sure a vampire is dead, you must decapitate or burn the remains to ash. Nothing
else will do.”
“I’m pretty sure a shotgun blast splattering his brains all over the walls will do just fine.”
She appeared amused once again. “You would think so, but this is not the case. Vampires
regenerate given enough time. You must remove the head completely.”
“Ugh.” I cringed. “That’s disconcerting.”
“Admittedly,” she added with a shrug, “a shotgun blast to the head will slow them down.
Considerably.”
“Yeah, I bet.” I said with a nod.
She trotted off to do a quick recon while I found a good position with a line of sight on
the front door.
“No sign he’s left tonight. Smells like he’s here.” She said, coming up behind me.
“Smells? It smells like the country to me. Cows. Woods. Graveyard.”

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 “Do this job and you will learn many skills.” Again with the half-truth. She gave me a
grim glare over her shoulder. “Stay behind me, and shoot anything that moves. Vampires are at
their most dangerous when defending their home. Watch the ceiling, as well.”
I nodded, swallowing some spit against a dry throat.
Astra turned and laid into the door with a kick. It exploded into a cloud of splinters and
glass, the sound so loud I’m sure they heard it in the next county. She stood there like a cowboy
ready to draw, both bayonets already out.
“Mister Hinkle!” Astra chimed. “I’ve slaughtered all your children and now I’m here to
kill you!”
“Mr. Hinkle! It’s Deputy McCanri. Come out slowly with your hands up!”
Astra huffed. And she was right to be amused. I felt like an idiot.
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!” The voice calling back hissed and screeched in a nearly
inhuman manner, grating so deep into my ears it scratched at my spine. “GET OUT!!”
“Oh, but Mr. Hinkle!” Astra feigned insult. “Can’t we at least have a bit of fun first? I did
bring the hors d’oeurves, after all.”
She’d better not be serious.
Into the jungle of piled boxes and ceiling-high junk that should have been a living room.
He might have stashed bodies in here for decades and we’d never know. She had the front, so I
aimed my barrel over the piles of crap and at the ceiling.
Breathless moans and the sickening, wet stretch of dead muscles sent me on sudden alert.
They were very near. Breathing picking up and heartbeat quickening, a bead of sweat rolled
down my face as I began to spin. Where were they? Not in the living room. Not on the porch.
Not outside.
Where are they?
“Be wary, Deputy.” Astra whispered. “There are more mortui here.”
Boxes exploded from the right, showering Astra and blocking the path between us.
A dead elderly woman in a flowery skirt shambled toward me with arms raised and teeth
bared. Two more fell onto Astra. The trigger pull on my Winchester was clean and easy, and had
become a welcome feeling this last two days. The top of the old lady’s head instantly burst into a
shower of gore.

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 Astra’s attackers lay still and headless on the ground as she stared at me, seemingly
having waited forever. Wow! She must be fast.
“I sense no more. Only Mr. Hinkle.” She told me.
“Sense?” I whispered to myself. If she heard it, there was no visible or audible cue on her
part. We continued through the piles of junk.
Kitchen Clear. Bathroom clear. North bedroom Clear. All that remained was the east
bedroom.
I heard a noise down the hall toward the living room. When I turned to look, a rat
skittered across the hall’s entry. The door behind me kicked in. I spun once more.
The window was boarded up then curtained. No piles of junk in the bedroom. Only
bedroom furniture… And several lifeless corpses slumped across the floor, their bodies withered
and shriveled. There was no doubt that he’d drained their blood. How else could these people,
who I knew personally, have appeared to be dead for years?
Following the direction of my barrel, I scanned the room from behind Astra who stood
still as a statue. A pair of bright red eyes set into a pale, handsome face met my own.
Suddenly, everything went dark. I let off a shot then turned at the slightest noise, firing
again.
“I can’t see!” I yelled. “Astra! I can’t see!”
My breathing had quickened to match the drumming of my heart. Then I could not hear,
either. I ran back the direction I thought I had come, feeling my way with my feet and gun barrel.
I stumbled into something and turned.
There stood a middle-aged brunette in tattered, charred clothes. Skin gray, eyes milky,
and half of her face peeled back by fire. She shambled forward yet somehow moved backward.
The sight blurred and waved, as though an image projected onto a fall of thin water.
Shoot her. A soothing, warming voice whispered in my ears. Shoot her, Deputy.
Was Astra in my mind? It sounded almost male, filtered through my own inner voice.
Another damned zombie right in front of me! It had to die.
My barrel already aimed, I started to fire. The trigger mechanism clicked. Suddenly, the
woman was gone and a flood of light returning to my eyes blinded me. The shotgun blasted the
ceiling. Something slammed me across the face so hard I whipped around a full 360 degree circle

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before falling, everything turning into a whirling haze of green, night skies, and white siding.
Tumbling down stairs, my weapon ripped from my hands before I hit the second step.
I caught a smear of sight, a fuzz of sound. Fury of motion spilled out onto the porch as I
lay in the grass, my waking senses fading. Leather mixed with flannel as two bodies struggled. A
flash of steel and spray of blood preceded a rolling head.
A still, silent blackness crept in.
* * *
“Wake up, deputy. Wake up.” Astra’s voice flittered in through the fog of gloom and
throbbing skull. She sounded calm. “Come back to the world of the living.”
“What?” I mumbled, forcing my eyes open.
Starlight twinkled, flashing in front of me, and my ears rang with a high-pitched note. A
pair of hands pulled me up to a seat on the steps while I nursed my pounding noggin with both
hands.
“What the hell hit me?”
“I did. You tried to shoot me,” she told me matter-of-factly, too calm to be offended.
“What?” My confused gaze her direction might have told her everything judging from the
look on her face I received in return. “There was a zombie. She came out of nowhere.”
“No. There wasn’t. It was only me, deputy. You tried to shoot me in the back. I was
forced to knock you out. I do apologize.”
“You hit me? Jesus! You have one hell of a punch. Feel like I got run over by a truck.”
“You should be thankful I chose not to kill you.”
I let her words sink in. She handed me a glass of water.
“So… I tried to shoot you? I swear to God it was another zombie.”
“No,” she replied. “I knew it was dangerous taking you there. The instant you locked
eyes with him, he got into your head.”
“He was playing with my brain? Vampires can do that? An abusive boyfriend years ago,
four years of jujitsu, and five years dealing with drunk hillbillies in a podunk town as a deputy
sheriff. I’ve been in more than a few brawls. But you’re something else…” I took a long breath
and another drink of water. “I’m infected, aren’t I?”
“How did you know I was lying about your wound?” She asked.

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 “Any rookie with six months under her belt learns to pick up on lies, and you were telling
a lot of half-truths. Especially back at Bob’s. Then there was the whole vampire telepathy thing.”
I sighed. “I’ve seen enough monster movies to know that’s bad.”
Looking at my boots, I set the glass of water beside me so I could hold my knees.
“Then I shall not lie, deputy. What I said about immune systems is true. However, this is
not the kind of virus you can overcome. If you do not become a mindless, walking dead freak,
you become what we call a revenant. You may better understand it as a ghoul. Under his power,
you would neither age nor rot but be his willing slave instead. Without him…”
“I become one of those things. Don’t I?”
“Yes. In a month. Perhaps two. Your body will begin to rot and your mind will slip
accordingly, until there is nothing left but a shambling corpse imprisoned by a ravenous hunger
for living flesh. But you are fortunate. His hold on you was weak because his taint was still fresh
in your veins.”
“You saying there’s a cure?” I looked up at her.
“In a manner of speaking.”
Looking back to the grass, my head drooped, long black locks falling free around my
shoulders. Breath came hard under the weight of Astra’s words.
“What I told you of myself is true. My name is Astra and I am from Greece. I have
traveled the world many times, and have been a warrior all my life. What I have not said is that
my birth occurred in Sparta in 415 AD. Though I was not born to the Spartans of legend you are
thinking of. They are my distant ancestors.”
Staring aghast, sitting away from her, my mouth opened to say something that became
lost in transit, eyes bulged.
She continued. “At nineteen, a vampire wiped out my whole village. Except for me.
Instead, he turned me. For the next few decades, he tortured me, ravished me, and toyed with me.
Then abandoned me when he’d had his fill of entertainment. I have wandered this Earth ever
since. In that time I have I taken few protégés, and never sired a child nor created one of the
mortuus. But in you I see strength.”
“Strength?” I stammered, beside myself with everything. It was becoming too much.
“To endure eternity. Few possess such willpower, but you are among them.”
I jumped to my feet and backed away, pulse throbbing in my ears.

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 “You’re really a vampire?”
Astra turned her head to the east, watching beyond the horizon.
“The helicopters are coming.”
“Helicopters?” I wondered, then paused to listen. Only the nightly wind answered. “I
don’t hear anything.”
She rose so fast I didn’t see it. One instant she sat on the porch, and the next she stood
only couple of feet from me. I jumped, backpedaled, and squealed, tripping over a tree root and
hitting the ground on my butt. I swallowed against a dry throat again. Then, in a flash she knelt
beside me, her expression soft, sorrowful, and soothing.
“We are out of time, deputy. Shall I kill you? Or do you accept the offer of my blood?”
“I would be your…what? Your child?” I quivered under the weight of too many emotions
to separate.
She nodded gracefully, politely. Just like a noblewoman might. “In a manner of speaking.
This is an offer I have never before given, and may yet never again. The choice is yours.”
Before I could even think about it, words left my trembling lips, voicing the fears within
me. “I’m not ready to die.”
“As you wish,” she said. “Brace yourself, deputy. This is going to hurt.”
Instantly, she was on me. Long, sharp canines sinking into my neck, body rested over
mine with an iron grip. Excruciating pain drove through my core, blistering through my limbs. I
could actually feel my blood being sucked from my veins to the rhythm of her mouth. Agony
made me shriek but did not fight her. My body kicked and pushed back against my will until it
grew heavy and weary. Shallow panting took over, growing quicker and weaker, and the beat of
my heart felt frail. Light blurred with darkness and my ears heard only distant echoes.
As the last breath left my body, the final sensation my mind registered was a thick, warm
trickle sauntering down my throat on its own accord, leaving a familiar coppery taste in its wake.

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