4: Sarah
I remember red. Red sparkling in her hair, on her dress … blood red against pale skin.
No.
Don't think about it. Don't remember the dazed, stunned look in her eyes, the way she fought back when it was already far beyond too late.
Don't remember the dark loathing on the face of her killer, her saviour. His fangs sinking into her neck. Parading her around the ballroom like a marionette, her movements jerky, her face that of a lost child; somehow disconnected both from the light in which she was dying … and the darkness into which she was being reborn.
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