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“You should be.”
She was so close. He could smell her. Bitter and dark. Like the grave.
“Are you here to watch me die?”
“No.”
She bent over him and, just before her mouth closed over his neck, he heard her whisper.
“You’re already dead.”
53
Barbara took a sip of her coffee. It had cooled and tasted bitter.
“You’re not fully turned?”
He shook his head. “I was infected by Athelinda’s bite. But I never drank her blood.”
“You’re a halfling.”
The half-turned would crave blood and live a little longer than a normal human, but not to the extent of a full vampyr. They existed between worlds.
“What do you feed on?” Barbara asked.
“I keep some pigs and goats.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“No.”
“What about Beau? He shot you. He must have thought you were dead.”
“He might suspect, but he can’t say anything. Not without admitting what he did.”
“He shot a cop,” Barbara said flatly. “He should be in jail.”
“And I tried to break out a murder suspect. By rights, so should I.”
She nodded. “Okay. Anything else I should know?”
“You mean, do I ever feel like ripping out someone’s throat and drinking their blood?”
“I was thinking more like are you coping okay in the daylight? Is it affecting your concentration or energy? But the other stuff is great to know, too.”
He looked sheepish. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Look,” Barbara said. “As long as it doesn’t affect your job, I don’t care. But other people will.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s illegal for vampyrs, even halflings, to work.”
Barbara caught the bitterness in his voice. “I don’t make the rules,” she said.
“Do you ever question them?”
“I used to. When I was younger.”
“What changed?”
