The Witch's Thirst. Deborah LeBlanc
Nosferatu would heal itself soon enough, and its eyes would be as good as new or better than before they’d been destroyed.
Although pus ran from its eye sockets, Lucien and Ronan witnessed the regeneration process firsthand. The Nosferatu’s eyes grew larger. Empty sockets at first; then new orbs appeared, black pupils. As suspected, the creature was regaining its sight.
Not knowing what else to do, Lucien prepared to attack the eyes again, once it got a bead on him. He held his breath, waiting.
Suddenly, the Nosferatu jerked backward as if bashed with a two-by-four from behind. It fell on its side onto the ground, and Lucien saw a long, ornate silver dagger jammed into its back and extending out of its chest, right through the heart.
Shocked, Lucien looked about in the darkness and spotted Pierre, Evee’s head Nosferatu. He stood beside his felled creature, brushed his hands together and shook his head.
“Such a waste,” Pierre said. “He should have followed orders and stayed with the group in the catacombs.”
As Pierre spoke, Lucien heard the voices of people gathering at the intersection of Barracks and Bourbon. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance, and in a flash, Pierre disappeared into the night, leaving Lucien and Ronan to face the crowd, the dead woman, the dead Nosferatu who, in death, had reverted to human form, and the police, whose sirens Lucien heard in the distance.
Lucien felt like a mouse stuck in a trap. He heard chatter coming from the crowd, each telling a different story, yet carrying the same theme. Lucien and Ronan were going to be fingered as murderers.
How the hell was he supposed to explain this to the police? And where was Evee? She’d specifically said to whistle for her and she’d come. Pierre had shown up instead. And although Lucien was grateful that he’d arrived in time to save them from the Nosferatu, it infuriated him that they’d been left alone to face the consequences of something and the someones they’d been sent here to protect.
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