Warning: character death, violence, profanity, and one of those really annoying sms conversations. (It's really not that graphic, though.)

For this alone on Death I wreak

The wrath that garners in my heart;

He put our lives so far apart

We cannot hear each other speak.

- In Memoriam 82 (Tennyson)


Paris, 2011

Afton was a receding figure in the rain. The air around him blurred softly, like a breath across glass. Soon he was just made a man-sized hole in the downpour.

Although the environment engendered melancholia, he was in a surprisingly good humour. He seemed to have adopted some miraculous immunity to the romantic desolation about the rain-sluiced streets, the houses with locked doors and barred shutters. Even the aromatic, earthy smell brought out by the water couldn't corrupt the sublime conviction that everything would turn out just right.

He was close to bursting into song. I'm singing in the rainwhat a glorious feeling!

It was a good thing his phone went off when it did, then. His grin was so wide it bulged his cheeks. A text from Chelsea, finally!

Afton: who is didyme?

Chelsea: I don't know? (… Am I supposed to?)

He reached a natural standstill under the eaves of a closed shoe-store. Disturbed by his presence, the birds resting on its slick tiles departed in a messy flurry of squawking and black feathers. They looked like pieces of masonry falling into the sky.

Afton was stumped; he was sure Chelsea would know who Didyme was, by the simple explicative Chelsea seemed to know everything about everyone. She was a gossip… and yet, she was the only person who stoically spent afternoons on end reading New Scientist with him.

Afton: didyme… that's probably not how you spell it. vizimoe? dusymole? diademii? it's got sort of a spanish flair

While he waited for Chelsea to reply, he wiped the phone free from a raindrop that coalesced on its screen. As his skin didn't secrete oils, it wasn't stamped with fingerprints.

A phone was an odd thing for a vampire to possess; it lacked the gaudy opulence that usually attracted his kind. The Volturi loved flashy and grotesque; all the better if these characteristics were combined, like a ruby necklace made to look like a slit throat. Actually, that sounded like an excellent anniversary present for Chelsea.

Chelsea: Ah, Didyme. I know whom you mean. Let me guess… you found one of his poems, didn't you? Was it awful? Did he dedicate it to World Vision?

Afton smiled as he typed. i… i like marcus's poetry. it's… expressive.

He didn't have to wait long for her next reply.

Chelsea: Come now, it's torturous enough to rival Jane's divining fire.

Afton: that's harsh.

Chelsea: Gosh, and to think I nearly forgot I was talking to Mr. Righteous…

Afton: so r u going to tell me who didyme is?

Chelsea: … No, actually. I'm not. It's not my place to disrespect Marcus by giving you information you clearly aren't privy to. Though he may be a gormless idiot, he's my gormless idiot, capisci? He'll tell you when he's ready… or not at all. But that's his choice.

Afton: please?!

Chelsea: Why do you want to know all of a sudden? You haven't fallen in love with him, have you? Gods above. You and everyone else.

Afton: … no? hahaha…

Afton: i'm just… tired of feeling left out all the time. i want to have a vague idea of who didyme is (enemy? acquaintance? sister?) so i don't look stupid trying to talk to her. or less stupid than normal if u know what i mean.

Chelsea: Oh, Afton. I don't think you have to worry about that. Something tells me Didyme isn't the best conversationalist at the moment.

Afton: haha, she was laconic

Chelsea: I wouldn't know. I missed her by thirty years.

Afton: well she was pretty direct when i talked to her

Chelsea: Scusami, but when you say 'I talked to her', what do you mean, exactly?

Afton: uh i opened my mouth and waggled my tongue a bit to produce meaningful sound. whats your definition of 'talk'?

Chelsea: Afton… Didyme is dead. She died before I was even born- we're talking the time around Ussher's chronology here. She's very, very dead. If there was a light spectrum of deceasion, she'd be infrared. You can't get much deader than that. (Wait, did I just make a science analogy?!)

Afton sat down, although the pavement around him was sticky with gum. He re-read Chelsea's text in case there was some simple explanation for her strange message. There wasn't.

Afton: that wasn't my impression…

Time passed as they settled into an argument. At some point, she'd given up the notion he was joking and was seriously questioning his IQ. The rain slowed until the streets shone with an unguent-like lustre. Occasionally a barking dog or the faraway sound of drunken singing punctured the night, but for the most part it was unusually quiet for a metropolis.

That wild contentment had almost completely left him now, leaving a coldness in its wake that had nothing to do with the promise of winter on the air. An ambulance sped past him, its red and blue lights digging shards of colour into his eyes, spraying the ground in front of him with a fine film of scummy water. It had been hours… where was Marcus?

Bloody hell, I'm the worst Volturi Guard in history, Afton thought as he teetered on the edge of panic.

"Afton," an instantly recognisable voice said. Marcus seemed to derive pleasure from sneaking up on him. Relief took the edge off his annoyance; his friend wasn't in danger due to Afton's negligence.

Before he could utter a scathing reprimand, the boy came into his line of sight and it died on his lips.

There was something very wrong with Marcus. He looked even more pale and drawn than usual. Jewel-bright bloodstains were glistening on his clothes in random splotches; his whole body was trembling. There was a wide smear of blood across his nose and lips, and more running down his neck. It was like seeing a shark in the bathtub; the sight of him was discordant and terrifying enough that Afton felt a knee-jerk reaction to run away.

"I fucked up," Marcus said blankly, not bothering to go into specifics.

Afton blanched; he thought Marcus was incapable of swearing. "What happened?"

Marcus looked skywards (at the brown underbelly of the eaves) and ran a hand through his hair. It sprang back at his touch. "It was an imbroglio," he continued; still no specifics. "I don't know what to do."

"It can't be that bad," Afton said.

Marcus closed the distance between them and crouched down. For an absurdly hopeful moment, Afton thought Marcus wanted to hug him. But he reached for Afton's cellphone.

"Is this your communication device?"

"Yeah."

Marcus looked at it, nonplussed. He raised the screen to his raspberry-red mouth. "I wish to speak with Athenodora, please," he said, empathically drawing out each word.

A small smile quirked Afton's lips. "That's not how it works."

"Show me?" Marcus said in a small voice.

Afton nodded and took the cellphone from him. They brushed skin and the burning agony of desire shot through him. Marcus's eyes widened. "Afton, focus."

"S-sorry," he stuttered. The scent of blood made the air between them tacky. There were small water crystals in Marcus's hair, though it was too early for the dew-point temperature. He…

"Afton! Personal emergency," Marcus said in exasperation. "Could you not fantasise!"

"I'll ring Chelsea. She can take the phone to the Mmm…."

He was about to say the Matron, but he wasn't sure whether Marcus was aware of the nickname, or to what degree he'd find it offensive. It was an inside joke with the guards- one of few that Afton understood. In Victorian London, a Matron was the wife of a workhouse Master.

There was a tiny scrap of amusement in the boy's voice. "Athenodora."


An hour earlier

He should've known this decision would follow him to the present; it was inevitable three thousand years ago, as it was inevitable now. Aro or Didyme; it had to be one or the other. They were too possessive, too competitive, to share him.

Only it was presenting itself to Marcus in a very unusual form: obey the Law, or tell the truth?

He'd rather stab himself with his fork than answer that question.

"Are you alright?" Aubrey said. "Allergic to garlic or something?"

Marcus laughed hollowly, unable to keep the note of betrayal from it. "You obviously don't know a lot about vampires, do you?"

"Dude, I didn't know vampires were actually real until five seconds ago."

"Oh, we're definitely real," Marcus drawled. "But vampire is a very disagreeable term, as you can imagine. I prefer 'proactive anaemic'. It's politically correct."

Aubrey raised his eyebrows. "Are you… is that sarcasm?"

He shrugged, making one of those 'what can you do?' faces. "I think we all know how vulnerable Didyme is to flights of fancy," he said delicately. "I tell her I'd kill for a hamburger… and she thinks I'm one of the bloodsucking undead."

Didyme flushed, suddenly sitting ramrod-straight. Marcus, with a sinking heart, realised she was gearing up for an argument. Oh, please… don't say anything… just let me explain later…

"I've seen you," she hissed. "Breaking the bones of small children so you could suck the red marrow from their medullary cavities. I remember you tearing a young lady apart so enthusiastically all that remained was a bloody mist… and globules. That isn't a flight of fancy, Marcus."

He felt like kicking himself. Why couldn't he say something before? It didn't have to be a long explanation; by the way, can you please not tell your friends I'm a vampire, I'll explain soon.

But he got so caught up in the colourful world of emotions (his amazement and nervousness and ardour for the brown-skinned rough-and-tumble girl from Mars) that the thought never occurred to him.

Marcus swallowed his guilt and gave Didyme a bleak look. "You don't get out much, do you?"

"You can't just discount them," she said, trembling like a boiling kettle. "Don't you dare laugh at me; you know I speak the truth!"

"Would it make you feel better if I proved I wasn't a vampire?"

Didyme nodded, clenching her teeth. Her hand squeezed into a fist under his, her little red thumb wrapped tightly around the nub of his. Marcus silently pleaded her to understand; but of course she couldn't. She wasn't able to read his mind.

He put on an indulgent smile; it felt like crushing a sandcastle. "Do you have any wooden stakes handy? Or holy water? Or crosses?"

"You mock me." She twisted her hand free from his and buried it in her lap. Didyme looked smaller when she was wounded; shrivelled up, as if her dress was suddenly three sizes too big. Marcus knew that was how she responded to all types of violence- by becoming smaller, retreating into herself like a turtle. It's what made her such a bad fighter.

Marcus realised he'd never caused Didyme to be distressed or upset before… because it was difficult to displace her sunny disposition. But now it seemed to be so easy; a couple of words said in bitterness, not earnestness, and he'd sent their bond careening off its tracks.

He wanted... more than anything… to gather her up in his arms and tell her it was alright; they wouldn't be conquered by time or circumstance. A part of him longed to keep her completely innocent of the Volturi- the triumvirate of Chelsea, Corin and Jane- because it would be easier to start again than start to explain. Where would one even begin?

But he had responsibilities now; to his brothers, to Volterra, and to the Law. He couldn't discount three thousand years in a single evening. And neither would they; if he broke the Law they'd treat him with the same indifference as any other criminal. No one upheld Aro's New World Maxims as rigorously as those who enforced them.

(And it was only a year… after that, he wouldn't have to see that dreadful castle ever again. But for now, he was bound and gagged as much as any Volturi member.)

He dragged his chair away from her. "I think you're delirious," he said. "You look unwell."

His words made the hair on the back of Didyme's neck stand up. Her voice dipped to an unmasked whisper. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with you?" He gripped the familiar topography of his bony kneecaps, trying to stop himself from lashing out at something. His resolve almost crumbled.

"Sorry to but in here," Agnes interjected diplomatically. "But I'm confused. Is he a vampire or not?"

Didyme's head bopped up and down in a gross exaggeration of a nod. "Yes!"

"No," Marcus said.

"Well, he's certainly freakishly white enough to be a vampire." Agnes sighed, and looked to her brother. "What do you think?"

"I can't see… I can't see why Didyme would make something like this up," he replied, ever the voice of reason.

A hush, big enough to host a moderately-sized evening function in, fell across the table as the twins slowly came to grips with the gravitas of the situation.

"Please," Marcus said, abruptly sincere in the extreme, "is there nothing I could say to change your mind?"

Aubrey looked at the girl and boy, side-by-side, monochrome and sepia, sombre and vivacious. His eyes met Didyme's, and she nodded in encouragement, the ghost of relief etched into a smile. He couldn't think of one good reason why she'd lie... let alone put up such a furore as she had. Besides, he lived and breathed the supernatural already, didn't he? Vampires are real. It wasn't any stretch of the imagination.

He shook his head slowly. "No."

Marcus looked down at his plate. "Then I hope your death is painless."

Faster than he could protest- or think of a protest- with the lonely clap of force encountering meat- Marcus's fork was buried in Aubrey's chest.

"Merda, missed," Marcus said. "I was aiming for your heart. I appear to have pierced a lung instead."

Aubrey was too shocked to listen. It was as though his band of hearing had suddenly shrunken; he could hear the rustle of his clothes and the sound of his heart skipping a beat, but little ambient noise. He didn't feel the pain yet. Just the cold, alien feel of stainless steel parting his flesh. He could only watch with soundless, increasing horror as a thin stream of red ran down the front of his shirt. Unlike other bumps and scrapes in his life, it was mortal, Ferrari red.

I've always wanted to drive a Ferrari, he thought before the wound really began to gush.

And then the pain hit, sending him toppling over with a choking cry.

Agnes leapt to her feet, a scream ripping from her throat with a wildness that brought tears to her eyes.

Mr. Lévi sat very still, blinking several times in succession.

Didyme was halfway out of her seat before she realised it. She wasn't sure what her intentions were. The room seemed to be growing bigger and smaller simultaneously, and she noticed a corner of the room she'd never thought to look before, where two lines on the wall met with a geometric beauty that temporarily arrested the momentum of her thoughts. She stumbled over a chair- how did a chair get on the floor?- and very nearly sprawled over Aubrey's twitching body.

He had paled rapidly. Aubrey was very beautiful, and the lily-whiteness only enhanced his ethereal appearance. His fine silver hair was tousled so artfully it was as if by design.

Didyme fell down on her hands and knees. The world careened into stark unreality. The keening noise Agnes was making nearly cleaved her skull in two. It didn't sound like it could be made by human lungs.

There was already a bright bib of blood under the fork. Didyme seized it and pulled. It gave way with a wet sucking; she could feel it scraping against something solid inside him.

When it was out she dropped it immediately. It was red right up the hilt, like it had been dipped in ink.

With the obstruction gone, blood gushed freely from the wound with a rhythmic pulsing, in step with his heart. She covered it with her hands, and her sleeves were soon stained.

Didyme cast about for something to pack over it, but Agnes's screaming had turned to glue and stuck her in place. "Agnes- stop- I can't think!"

The girl clammed up immediately. She averted her eyes from the recumbent figure- to the landline by the door.

Didyme remembered the white handkerchief in her pocket. It wasn't designed for stemming blood flow, and it was already stained with salt, but it was all she had.

The heavy weight on his chest briefly revived Aubrey. His eyes fluttered open. "Di…" he croaked, finding it very hard to speak. Something was crushing his chest; even drawing the smallest breath took a gargantuan effort. "… H-help."

"Don't speak," she instructed.

He tried to laugh, then grimaced. Blood ran down the sides of his mouth. "That's not good."

"You'll be alright," Didyme said, an optimist to the point of stupidity. "I've seen worse."

She smiled over the sound of Agnes yelling into the phone.

"Why… why did… he stab me…?" Bubbles of blood formed and popped on Aubrey's lips when he spoke.

"Don't worry about that. Focus on what's important right now."

Her thumb felt silky where it stroked his skin, leaving butterscotch trails that promised to take him somewhere he didn't hurt quite so much.

Her words registered more slowly than her touch; they had to sink through the air first, which had tripled in density.

"Yeah… important." Another spasm rocked through him. "I need to tell you something…"

Surprisingly, he found it very easy to think. Certain mysteries that had troubled him for the past year suddenly become very clear in his mind. It was easier than ever to wrap his mind around complex ideas. They should get dying people to solve problems, he thought errantly. Do algebra or something.

"Now's not the time to confess your feelings for me," Didyme joked sternly. She's very good at hiding the edge of panic in her voice, Aubrey thought. Like an assassin can hide knives under their clothes.

"Oh… no," Aubrey countered feebly. "I like you… but I don't like like you… not enough to go out with you. Besides, you can't have a relationship with your sibling's best friend… it's a recipe for disaster." As he ended the sentence more blood poured from his mouth- he was gagging on it. Choking on a fountain of blood.

Didyme didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she did both. It wasn't a decorous sound.

"But that's… not the important thing," Aubrey continued. Now she knew how he ate so much chocolate and didn't put on weight; it all went into a reservoir of strength reserved for moments like this. "I want to tell you about the past."

"The past?"

"I see it, you know? It's… my defining feature. Never wanted it to be. But it does have its uses…" he struggled to sit up. Sweat broke across his brow. She pushed him down firmly. "I never understood why… some of yours was in French even before you spoke it. But it wasn't you."

Didyme felt it was a waste of energy to get him to cease speaking; she could only hope he'd stop by choice. The strain on his lung was killing him all the faster.

"The memories of your twin…" he said faintly. Didyme leaned closer, pressing his chest like a springboard, until their noses almost bumped.

"… they're the only ones I can actually read… it's all to do with…" he seized the front of her cardigan. It brought her ear right up against his face. "The crows, Didyme. Huginn and Muninn…"

"I don't understand," she whispered to the kitchen cupboard. From her perspective, it was all she could see.

"He made clocks in the shape of crows, see?" Aubrey released her; she leaned back immediately. There was blood in her hair now, too. Aubrey opened his palm, and the little bird timepiece was revealed, ripped from her cardigan. "My grandfather made two of them. One for… one for him… and one for you."

"Me?" She was completely discombobulated. "I don't know your grandfather."

"But you do…" Aubrey was trying to convey something very urgent with his eyes. His skin was an ashen colour now. "… Can't you see? He's the whole reason you're here!"

He'd clearly spent the last of his energy. His grip on the clockwork bird went slack; his breath, when it came, was accompanied by a rich squelching sound. The blood beneath her hands pumped more sluggishly.

Didyme wondered why on Earth he'd wasted so much energy to tell her something about clocks. It was absurd.

Agnes fell to her knees beside her brother. "The ambulance will be here shortly."

Her trembling hand swept a lock of silver from her brother's forehead. "I'll take over," she said sharply. All her forced precociousness was stripped away, revealing a young woman with nerves of steel. Her hands pushed under Didyme's. "I'll take over now."

"I…" Didyme began.

"Just get that demon out of my house," Agnes spat.

It took a moment for Didyme to work it out. That demon… she meant Marcus.

Didyme rose to her feet, gripping the table for balance. The room was spinning away from her. There was blood all over the linoleum, which had a pattern like a storm.

The phone handset was hanging by its cord, the dial tone perceptible from across the room. Mr. Lévi had somehow teleported himself to Aubrey, and the three of them knitted together. Agnes's golden hair spilled down her back. Mr. Lévi was cradling his son's head so gently for such a large man.

The last thing to take stock of was herself. The front of her dress- her hands- her arms- her hair- the blood was everywhere. She tried rubbing a spot out, but the damned thing just smeared more.

And Marcus, during the entire proceeding, was standing in front of the refrigerator. He wore an expression somewhere between pensive and bored as his fingers idly rearranged alphabet magnets into a nonsensical sentence.

Marcus was playing with fridge magnets when the life of the boy he'd stabbed leaked through his chest.

"You don't have another x," he observed, standing out of the way to let her read the garble he'd written.

DURA LEX SED LE

"Let me try again." His hands rapidly slid the plastic across metal.

IGNORANTIA JURIS NON EXCUSAT

"What does that mean?" Didyme whispered as he slid the final t into place.

"My sweet ingénue…" Marcus lilted as he turned around. "I'm afraid I can't find the words to explain."

"Do you have any idea what you've just done?" Didyme paused. "Do you even care?"

He looked incredulous. "When it was just faceless peasants, did you?"

Didyme felt a tingling sensation across her skin as the blood started to stick to her skin. "Tell me there's a reason."

He stepped closer, his expression changing to equanimity. "What if there isn't one?"

"Then…" She took in a deep breath. "Then you would've changed beyond all recognition. And I'd ask you to leave."

"Oh, perfect creature of my heart," Marcus breathed. His face was a bright band of pain. "Caius would have a field day if he found out I broke the Law. He'd crucify me. I'd be powerless to stop him…" He angrily swiped at the alphabet magnets, causing half the sentence he'd made to crash to the floor in a bright cascade.

"We're talking about laws?" Didyme laughed, but she felt far from happy. "Do you think you're getting away with this? Do you think I could bear that? When it makes me a conspirator too? When the paramedics take Aubrey away… when the police come… I'm telling them what happened."

"Didyme, that boy has a puncture wound from a fork. It's not humanly possible to inflict a wound like that."

"Of course it isn't; a human didn't make it!" She stomped her foot, and felt instantly ashamed. Only children did that. "Nobody is above the law, Marcus. Not even you."

"Precisamente," Marcus murmured. "This won't make sense to you right now, but if it leaves this room that vampires exist, I'm a dead man. I'm breaking your laws if you lie; but I'll break mine if you tell the truth. And my Law is just an increment more lethal. You and the fortune-teller… I plan on turning you; but the boy… and the old man… must die."

His face darkened.

"Mr. Lévi?" Her voice jumped an octave higher. "What has he done?"

He made a start towards the man on the floor, but Didyme suddenly in front him, with the same look of wild desperation he saw on the face of his nymph. "You're not going to kill him!"

"I have no choice," Marcus simply stated. He tried to push past her.

"Stop!" She screeched, tears springing through slitted eyes. "You can't! Look at him! He's catatonic! Please… oh, please…"

He seized her firmly by the shoulders, wary of her delicate frame. "He's only one man, Didyme."

"Don't," she begged. Her hands made fists around his clothes when he lifted her off the floor. They left red Rorschach marks on the material.

He waltzed her across the floor, ignoring her screamed protestations. When she realised it was futile, she lay her bloody hands across his mouth and nose, trying to insert a finger into a mouth that was firmly clamped shut.

The scent of fresh blood paralysed him. Panic and confusion clouded his expression.

"I'd rather you kill me," she sobbed, chest heaving, "than murder the good stranger who has given me house and home."

He tried not to inhale. But the sweet smell of drupes, intermingled with fresh blood, was inescapable. The thirst that went unquenched for weeks on end flared up; a tight and painful cord that pulled through the length of his trachea, sizzling the skin along its breadth. It would be less painful if someone shoved a hot poker down his throat.

"It's not your nature, Markos… you were so gentle, kind…" her voice hitched, thin as it was. "I beg of you… stop… if not for who you are now, then for who you once were. Remember…"

Marcus reached up and tentatively wrapped his hand around her wrist. His whole arm was shaking as he fought the impulse to bring it to his lips and drink… to relieve himself of a pain so excruciating it obliterated all reason. He gasped softly, closing his eyes. It made little difference. His grip grew more ardent and something in Didyme's wrist crunched. She cried out as pain's sharp teeth wracked up her arm.

He let go instantly, and she wasted no time snatching her hand away. He looked over her shoulder at the old man slumped over the body of his son; the battlefield of broken bonds around him; the emptiness than ran deeper than simple grief for his wife. Didyme was right; Mr. Lévi wasn't a threat to anyone.

Marcus shuddered. He'd come so close to killing the only thing that was capable of causing him more pain than thirst.

Her eyes moved to the floor, but not before he caught the cold touch of fear. "I'll lie; I promise you," she implored. "I'll lie until my tongue gets black and forked. Aubrey tripped on his cutlery. He stabbed himself. I'll make them believe me."

"I can explain…"

"There's no need," she said hurriedly.

"No, Didyme, there's good reason-"

"They'll be here soon." Her voice sounded haggard; flat and closed. It was shutting him out. She held her damaged wrist in her good one; they were both caked in blood. "You can't be here."

It was the most transparent go away he'd ever heard from her.

"I'll show you the back door."

She walked him into the narrow hallway. Despite its limited width, a staircase was squeezed in there too. Marcus didn't waste the opportunity to drag the clean, bloodless air into his lungs.

Didyme held a pane-glass door open for him. Her expression was neutral; weary. There was just the barest drizzle of rain now, but the cold remained. It felt like a vacuum, softy pulling him into the dark.

He vacillated on the threshold. "Your wrist…" he gingerly reached out for her.

"Don't touch me," she whispered, flinching from the skin contact. Didyme closed the door on him, giving him to the night.


Didyme turned her back on the door. She felt too exhausted to juggle all the emotions rushing through her. Her hand throbbed like she was wearing a bracelet of thorns- and she was glad for it. She might've collapsed if it weren't for its sharp, insistent bite.

The kitchen was silent. Even at a distance, Didyme could tell the pale body on the floor was beyond resuscitation. The pool of blood wasn't completely congealed; rigor mortis was yet to set in. But he was dead. Agnes wasn't holding his wound anymore, but her hand still clung to the scarlet handkerchief. She was crying noiselessly, and the room possessed the same bated breath as an open grave.

It was a scene Didyme knew too well, and hoped never to witness again. Only, when it was Didyme's brother, his body was purple and furrowed by sea water, not stark white and splayed like a starfish…

Markos did this. His name was a heavy stone on her heart; if only she could cast it away so easily.

No… Marcus. Markos is gone.

She felt the parameters of her life tightening around her, and Didyme had never felt so… helpless. If she couldn't fight, out run, or talk herself out of the knot she'd suddenly become tangled in, she didn't know how to get free.

A knot with the boy who was a like beautiful, cursed dagger. And for better or worse… someone she still loved.

Then the paramedics flooded in, and the flurry of movement and sound around her was distraction enough from the cold dread that yawned inside.


Author's note: well that sure puts a damper on their birthday plans.

I'm truly sorry for the wait with this one. I spent most of my Easter break writing to get this posted. On the plus side, it's almost double the size of a normal chapter!

I was sincerely flattered by your reviews on the last chapter. I thought it was really cheesy so… I wasn't expecting that. Thank you :)

Back to Volterra in the next one! *Cheers*