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The Vampire Gift 5: Whispers of Evil

Page 27

by E. M. Knight


  It splices the demon in two.

  Before I can so much as react, Morgan is on the body, sucking the harsh, corrosive demon blood into her mouth. That mask over her face—the one only I can sometimes see—twists and warps. One moment, she is her beautiful self, the next she is a horrid, decaying woman.

  The blood leaks past her lips and dribbles down her chin. It burns every bit of skin it touches. Chemical vapors rise from the reaction. Morgan’s vampire body fights against the damage, her own blood doing its best to heal, but coming short.

  Still Morgan drinks from the fount of the demon’s spine. The stench of its blood is horrific. I see the rivulets, and they stream down Morgan’s throat. Her skin starts to turn black, black with corrosion, black with corruption, black with decay. But she hangs on to the broken half of the Narwhark and sucks the blood out as if her life depends on it.

  Finally, she can take no more. She crumbles back. The empty shell of the Narwhark’s lower body falls from her grip.

  I start, aghast and horrified, as convulsions take the Queen’s body. Her beautiful hair becomes brittle and white. Strips of it fall away. She twists and writhes in enormous pain. Her mouth opens as she makes to scream but not a single sound comes out.

  Then she collapses on her front and goes still.

  She is still for so long, and so absolutely, that I begin to think she’s dead. But just as the possibility of such a reversal of fortune enters my mind, Morgan croaks, coughs, and then gasps a series of long, pained gasps.

  Slowly, she pushes herself up.

  I choke when I see her face.

  She is hideous.

  It’s like the demon blood has peeled all the layers of her skin off and left a raw, oozing mess. No trace of the old Morgan remains.

  The wounds over her body start to crystalize. The vampiric essence inside us all tried its best to heal.

  But the damage is too much. The raw wounds gloss over with a transparent film. The dark marks of corruption cease progressing but do not retract. Her beautiful hair is forever gone, replaced by reedy, hay-like sticks of white.

  Morgan, the vampire Queen, hauls herself up. She looks down at her brittle, shaking hands. She tests her fingers. She takes an awkward step forward.

  “This,” she says, her voice raspy and ruined and grating and raw, “is how I prime myself for what is to come. Demon blood, infused with that of a vampire, mixed with our essence, strengthens what it does not kill. Demon blood, taken in by a vampire, creates the strongest of us all.

  “It is the only way for the soul to survive the transfer between two bodies. And now, my dear—” She kicks the leftover carcass at me. “It is your turn.”

  ~ The End ~

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