before Ross grabbed her around the waist with his left hand and slammed his right fist into the center of her chest so hard she died, hemorrhaging, before her limp body had reached the plastic tarp.
Ross killed the chauffeur with another blow of the fist, straight down atop the man's skull. Davette heard it crack.
And then the feeding. The servants, panting the obvious repulsive sexual fervor, began scurrying about lifting the edges of the plastic to drain the blood into an enormous urn while Ross himself clamped a hand over Evelyn's still-spouting arteries. Then he lifted her body into his arms and positioned the throat within reach.
And then, before removing his palm from the wound, he turned and looked straight at Davette, straight at her, knowing all along she had been there, knowing her, knowing everything. Davette had time to gasp and put a drunken hand to her mouth before she heard the words, heard the Voice, slicing into her shadows.
"Entertained?" purred the vampire, before removing his hand and plunging his fangs into crimson.
Davette had been wondering what had happened to Kitty. She hadn't seen her for weeks. Now she wondered no more.
She knew.
And she knew the rest.
I'm dead too, she thought.
Soon, I'm dead.
And then the doorbell rang.
"Get rid of them!" hissed Ross's bloody mouth.
It was not so easy. Pough, Ross's main slug, went dutifully to the front entrance, checked through the eyehole, and opened the door to dismiss whoever was there. Davette heard his voice briefly. Then, for several long seconds, heard nothing.
Then Pough reappeared. His face was, even for him, ashen. His eyes were wide and bright.
And fearful.
"Master..." he all but whined.
Ross put down Evelyn's body and stood up. He eyed Pough menacingly for an instant, then opened his mouth to speak.
But..."Ross!" sounded out from the front entrance and all present were silent.
"Ross Stewart!" then sounded out. And again, as before, it was from another Voice.
Davette watched Ross start toward the sound, then stop, find something to wipe his mouth, then continue. He paused at the step to the entryway and Davette felt sure he wanted to turn and look to her. For what? For reassurance?
Maybe.
Then he was out the front door and it closed behind him.
When she awoke, late the next afternoon, she found someone had put her in her bed. Her first thought was of the look on Ross's face as he had stepped toward the door. But her second was the look he'd had as he'd raised his fangs from the feast.
He had been drunk. On the blood.
Dinner on the terrace just after sunset. Candlelight, flowers, fine wine. Just the two of them. Just Davette eating. Ross wore a tuxedo and Davette, under orders, wore her glittering best.
And that part had made her feel better. Not dressing up. Ross often made her dress up. He liked to look at her, liked to show her off. Liked to make her strip. No, it wasn't the dressing up. It was that it didn't take two hours to do it like it usually had.
Because she would... just... sit... there... in front of her dressing table and she would reach for something, a comb or a brush or some perfume? Maybe? And... by the time... her... her hand had... reached out... for it... she had... forgotten what it was she was reaching for.
And then she would have to just sit there for a second until she remembered what she had been trying to do and to do that she would have to look in the mirror to see what was still undone and she hated looking at herself these days, hated it so much it would often make her cry and... And she was too tired to cry, too exhausted, too drained.
So she would just slump there and the dry sobs would rock her shoulders for a while. Sand-blasted by horror and fear and shame.
And then it would be time to continue getting dressed. And she would sit herself up, and reach for something, reach fast, before she forgot, and sometimes she missed and Pough spent a lot of time cleaning up broken bottles.
But tonight had been... okay. Not great, not the way she used to feel. But better.
Then she knew.
He hadn't bitten her in a week.
I'm recovering, she realized. I'm coming back.
And then she thought, looking directly at him, Whom do I kill first? Him or me?
He had started talking about high school. Not just about the school but about old friends from school and old events and