Danny rises, thirsty. Her first breath of death fills her like no living breath ever did. The scent of blood rouses her and she turns toward it. She puts her mouth on his, tasting his essence. It's good. It's well-meaning. It's delicious. And she is thirsty, so thirsty.
She drains him.
Light pierces her irises. Blood, dampness, dust, mildew punch her in the nose. Blood, oh the taste of the blood flows across her tongue, and like a succulent, she swells, brightens, grows, glows, blossoms. Her body, once merely an instrument, is now something she can fully inhabit, living in death as in life she never could. Always the protector, always the responsible one. Always the big sister, the sidekick. But this—
This sensorium embraces her, enraptures her, consumes her. She wants to touch everything. She wants to taste everything. She wants to run, to fly, to breathe, to kill. She wants to drink. She wants to infuse this sensorium with those of everyone she drinks.
Years of frustration, years of trying to do the right thing, years in impossible situations. Now this freedom— now this delight— now this wickedness—
She shudders. His blood coursing through her body brings pleasure she only dreamed of before. So many dreams. So many long, unsatisfying, and ultimately ridiculous and foolish dreams. This death is beautiful. This death has loosed the bonds of her heritage. Seven generations of heroines. So much responsibility.
And Death has freed her.
She stands, turns, taking in the room, its colors, shapes, alarums outside the windows. And Perry. Not Perry. Mother.
Perry-not-Perry beckons, and Danny (not Danny) has no choice but to obey.