He looked at me, shook his head, and started back toward the dry erase board. That was an insult, Blake. I saw you at the club last night. The place where he went to die, alone, knowing that he would rise as he had died, alone.
Fought to see him. He wanted to feed the hunger of his skin. He leaned his face over my shoulder, and I caught the sweet scent of his skin. A feather of a touch, and already his face was showing the effect, as were other parts of his body.
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