There are certain known facts about vampires. They revile change. They are obsessive-compulsive. They are illogical. They are cursed. They will burst into flames in sunlight.
They are dying.
With less than a hundred vampires left in the world, Yas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Being imprisoned for nearly a century had turned Libby into a neat freak, of sorts.
"Can you calm down? You'll give me a headache." Sonya teased from her throne, the most comfortable chair Libby and Tavius had been able to find in the house. It was garish, with bright red cushions and narcissistic carvings of autumn trees across the legs and back, but it was plush and perfect for an infirm girl.
Libby dropped the brush she'd been using to murder nonexistent stains and marched to said infirm girl, dropping onto her haunches to peer suspiciously at her friend. Lips pursed, eyes rolling, she snorted, "Bull."
Sonya's mouth flickered with amusement, but her face was far from bright. She looked haggard, the skin under her eyes deeply bruised and her pallor pale.
Libby had a million things to ask her friend, but none of them were important. Or rather, they were, but not as important. Worry flickered through her breast. Mortality was easy to forget, sometimes, but not so with Sonya. The reminder was always there, and it nibbled at Libby's conscience. "How are you feeling? Are you hungry?"
"You offering to cook something I can actually eat?"
"You didn't complain—"
"Without my magic?" The sorceress added, raising her eyebrows, a sly smile forming. It was a waxy expression, tilted slightly sideways with a sort of inebriated haze. The cause, a thin cigarillo, smoldered innocently in Sonya's left hand.
