The Vampire Dimitri

Начало книги

Dimitri stared down at the blood. Everywhere. It was every where. On the bedcoverings. On the floor. On the table. On his hands. His arms.

The taste…still in his mouth. Rich, hot, full.

He swallowed the last vestiges on his tongue. Ambrosia.

He blinked, trying to focus, but his head pounded. When he tried to lift himself up, his sore muscles protested. Yet, life shimmered through him. His skin prickled, alive. Dimitri tried to breathe, but every breath he took in was laden with the scent. Bloodscent.

And then he remembered.

He remembered how it had happened.

Horror seized him.

And only then did he look over at the bundle of blankets and clothing, the lifeless form in a triangle of sunlight on the floor. One pale, plump arm hung out, marked and torn. Blood seeped everywhere: through thick quilts and the heavy layers of her dress. The mass of graying hair, loose and streaked with blood.

No. No. He held his temples, closed his eyes.

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