In that final moment, she knew she had his fear, and it was delicious.
During the quiet minutes after that, as his eyes turned glassy, staring sightlessly upward to the stained ceiling, she knew she had the last thing she-and they-needed from him.
When she felt the very essence of his terrifying death seep into her own soul, satisfying the gnawing hunger for a time, she stepped down and slowly lifted her foot from his throat. She barely heard the quiet hiss of his trapped breath as it quietly escaped his lifeless form.
Then, and only then, did she receive her reward.
She now allowed the fury to run rampant through her body as she stepped forward and collapsed on the bed, writhing with an ecstasy not entirely of this earth.
11 Months Later
Thursday, November 3
7:23 A.M.
St. Louis, Missouri
CHAPTER 1:
“You knew I was taking these classes, Rowan.” My petite, Irish-American wife made the statement and then paused to poke her head through the neckline of a sleeveless, pullover sweater then tug it down over her blouse. Quickly sliding her thumbs along either side of her jaw, she gathered her recently shower-dampened spirals of auburn hair and pulled them from the back of the garment then allowed them to spill over her shoulders, falling almost to her waist. She looked back at me and gave her head an exaggerated shake. “So what’s the problem?”
“I never said there was a problem,” I replied.
“You didn’t have to,” Felicity stated.
Her normally soft, Celtic lilt was taking on a far more discernable edge, and the colloquial speech of her heritage was starting to add itself to the mix. While the undertone was always there, it didn’t usually present itself so clearly except under particular circumstances-such as being overtired, inebriated, or surrounded by her relatives. Since I knew she was none of the above, it could only mean one thing. She was getting perturbed.