The tears of the world are a constant quantity.
Ingrid Dracula was not one for crying.
Crying was a silly Breather way of seeking attention; she knew much more intimate ways of gathering notice. Tears were for children, and Breathers. She was neither; tears did not escape her dark eyes. Never. She was far too in control of her emotions to let that happen. She was self-assured, dark, haughty, unmovable Ingrid. Unwavering, from head to toe.
But, staring at the pile of ashes at her feet, she wondered now if the dreaded liquid would pour beyond her control.
Will?
She knelt, hugging her arms around her heaving shoulders. With Vlad unconscious a few feet away, and the Count imprisoned in the UV cage, she could afford herself a moment of weakness – just this once. Just for Will.
Will, the Breather that had ensnared her.
Will, the half-fang that loved her.
Will, the pile of ash that would never rise again.
For all her obstinate refusal to show any form of emotional anguish, Ingrid felt the singular tear well up in the corner of her eye. It trickled down her cold cheeks and, after clinging to her chin, fell to the dusty floor.
Had she been younger, or fanciful, she would have entertained some idea of remaining by the ashes. Ingrid was tempted, so very tempted, to sit by Will's remains and cry to her unbeating heart's content.
And yet she rose, pulling her eyes away from the grey ashes. With closed eyes and head bowed, she allowed herself two final words for her dead lover.
"Goodbye, Will."
