. . . I didn’t come here to ...”
His mouth was smeared in dark red, and her blood was soaking the pillow beneath her head, running from her torn throat in a steady stream.
She was dying. She did not feel fear or rage, only sorrow that her visions of Edward had been an illusion. He was a monster—not a lover, not a husband.
The front door opened, and Seamus walked in.
“Rose?”
He stopped, as if unable to take the scene before him. Then he cried out in anguish, pulling a knife from the sheath at his belt and rushing forward.
“No,” she tried to say. “Seamus, don’t!” But the words were too soft and gurgling.
Even in her weakened state, Rose never did understand why Edward hesitated, but he didn’t move until Seamus was upon him, slashing at him.
The world was dimming, but she could hear Seamus cursing and slashing. Allowing her head to loll, she saw Edward moving at lightning speed, grabbing Seamus’ knife hand, turning it, and plunging the blade into his chest.
Seamus’ eyes grew wide, and then he collapsed onto the floor, gasping a few times, and then no more. His eyes were still open.
Edward staggered backward, staring at Rose and Seamus in shock, as if he could not believe what had just happened.
But neither could Rose.
She thought she had found love, and she’d let a killer into their house, and now her Seamus was gone.
Blood running from her throat, Rose pushed herself off the couch, falling next to Seamus. At least she could die beside him.
Edward knelt beside her. “I didn’t mean for this to—”
“Get away from her!” a voice boomed.
Rose looked up to see Seamus standing over them. He was alive! Whole. But then she realized she could see through him, and his body was still on the floor.
“Oh, no,” she whispered. This time, her words were clear.
He had died a violent death and come back instantly in the fire of passion as a ghost, tied to the house or tied to her, and she was dying by inches. What if she did not come back as well?
“Edward,” she whispered. “Don’t let me die. Don’t let me leave him all alone. Please. He’s lost everyone. Don’t let me die!”
Seamus took a swing at Edward, but his fist passed through Edward’s body. Seamus cried out and swung again; this time realization was dawning on his face as he saw his own body on the floor.
Edward looked at the door and back to Rose.
“Don’t let me leave him all alone,” she begged again, her words almost inaudible. But he could not save her, and she knew it. She cursed herself for letting him into the house.
His face twisted in anger, and then suddenly, he tore the veins of his own wrist with his teeth and shoved his wrist into her mouth. “Drink it,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. “Take it all back, and you won’t die.”
Seamus screamed in rage and helpless frustration.
The grotesque nature of Rose’s actions did not dawn until later. She could only think of Seamus, and she drew down, sucking dark fluid from Edward’s wrist as the macabre scene in her sitting room grew even darker.
He leaned closer. “Don’t go out into the sunlight ever again, or you will burn. When you get hungry, remember you can only feed on blood. Do you understand? You must feed on blood.”
She could just barely hear him over the roar growing in her ears.
Then the world went black.
“Rose! Oh, my God, Rose.” A pause followed. “Quentin! I don’t think she’s breathing.”
Slitting her eyes, Rose realized that Miriam Boyd was kneeling beside her, sobbing. People were moving about inside the house.
Old Quentin was inspecting her throat, his wrinkled face gone pale with shock. Seamus’ dead body still lay on the floor beside her.
“She’s alive,” someone said.
“We heard Seamus yelling,” Quentin said. “Who did this?”
“Edward Claymore,” Rose whispered. She felt no regret at exposing him for a killer. She felt no sorrow for Seamus. She felt nothing.
Well-meaning friends put her to bed. They took Seamus’ body to prepare him for burial, and she let them. Then she surprised everyone by asking them all to leave.
“No, Rose. Your throat looks bad, and you need someone here,” Miriam said.
“Please. Everyone go.”
Reluctantly, perhaps thinking she needed to mourn alone, her neighbors left.
She got out of bed and went downstairs. Many years ago, her grandfather had placed iron brackets on each side of the door and created a heavy wooden bar. But no one