Selene

kaTHUD. kaTHUD. kaTHUD. kaTHUD.

Teeth. Sliding free. Nerve impulses, slow and sluggish at first. Prickling in her flesh. Light. . . against closed eyelids.

What. . .is. . .

Groggy, Selene tried to open her eyes. It took another two tries before she could actually do it.

The closet seemed lit up with floodlights. Every detail stood out in sharp relief: the sheen of the fluorescent tubes stacked in racks against the back wall, boxes of light bulbs and fixtures, the writing on their sides crisp and clear; the concrete below her veined with little sparkles, walls lit from within by a soft sick green glow.

I didn’t switch the light on.

The thought brought her up to a crouch, immediately. She shook her head to clear it, her hair sliding and swinging in her face.

ka-THUD. ka-THUD. ka-THUD. ka-THUD. ka-THUD.

It took her a moment to realize her knees were sticking out grotesquely to either side, her elbows bent and palms flat against the concrete floor. Either her hip joints had decided to go floppy on her in a way that would make a hop dancer die from envy, or. . .

Oh, Christos, she thought, as the regular, mechanical thudding sound intensified. And along with that sound came something else.

Thirst. Terrible, burning, racking thirst that made her throat into a desert and her head an aching bomb cradled on her neck. Her nostrils flared. She could smell it, copper liquid thudding through living veins, hot and salty.

I’m thirsty. She held up one hand. Her fingers wriggled, long and slender in the greenish light. Then the claws burst free, and she almost fell over backwards, choking back a cry. Her coat brushed a box of light bulbs sitting on a low shelf, and the box fell.

Selene’s hand arrived before it could hit the ground, scooped up the box, and set it neatly back on its shelf without any conscious direction from her brain.

Reflex. I’ve got Nichtvren reflexes.

She stared at her hands in disbelief. The thudding sound was getting louder. She could also smell the source of it—male, she thought, without knowing quite how she knew. Getting closer. Probably a janitor.

Selene’s first meal.

She stuffed her hand in her mouth, forgetting her teeth would be sharper than a human’s, and tried to muffle the choked mewling sound of need springing from her throat. Her body demanded blood. Older Nichtvren could live on sex or violence, but the young ones—the fledglings—needed blood. Hot, pulsing, coppery, salty blood. Her teeth scraped her skin, but didn’t break through.

Yet.

She stared at the closet door. The knob jiggled.

Go away! For the love of God, go! Run away!

The glyph on the door flared, holding it closed. A small metallic snap sounded.

“Fuck,” someone said, clearly audible through the door. “Key broke. God damn it.”

Selene’s eyes rolled. Prey. It’s prey. It’s blood.

So close.

Her breathing slowed, stopped. She couldn’t stop breathing fully until she fed for the first time and the Turn was completed, so red pinwheels revolved behind her closed eyelids. Oxygen deprivation. Her body would start to cannibalize itself unless she fed, and after twenty-four hours she’d be a rotting brain-damaged hulk without even the sense to stay out of sunlight.

Oh, God…

The medallion, hanging between her breasts, sent out a silent pulse like the warm push of air in front of an explosion. It scorched at her skin and settled comfortably, pounding out the rhythm of her own frantic heart.

A new smell filled the closet, sweet and cloying, fermented. Her body, dying, the human cells committing mass suicide, the Nichtvren cells splitting, filling up, altering, taking their place. She could feel it, consciousness invading every single cell in her body, as if her mind was stretching. Mental silicon-putty gooping and glorping all the way through her liver, her kidneys—shrinking and self-destructing now, because Nichtvren didn’t need kidneys.

No wonder they have such great reflexes, they think with their whole bodies. She stifled a moan. The thirst set her throat on fire, like greasy petroleo smoke.

The knob jiggled again. Go away! She couldn’t concentrate enough to raise any Power to push the man away from the door, or—

She blinked.

That was all it took, one blink. Her body slipped the leash of her will, bolting, and the door crumpled like tinfoil, the hinges and lock tearing free with one crunching noise. She burst out into the hall, knocking the portly man with his bucket and mop onto his ass. Then she was on him, her bag bumping her hip, something crunching as she grabbed his hand, instinctively jerking the man back into the dark hole she’d just vacated. The fluorescents overhead tore at her eyes until her pupils contracted.

Selene came to with her teeth driven into the man’s throat, hot blood filling her mouth. Her jaw distended, cartilage popping so she could get a better hold on him. Her slim hands held him down, overriding his struggles, batting away his ineffectual punches.

It poured down her throat, hot life, it tasted like fresh bread and chocolate and red wine, everything good and wholesome she’d ever had. A tide of strength exploded from her throat, filled her stomach, tingled in every finger and toe as the Nichtvren cells finished the task of converting her body into something else.

Something inhuman.

It didn’t stop until the dried husk dropped from her hands. Selene backed up, crouching, along the wall. Boxes full of light bulbs fell onto the thing. It lay slumped on the concrete, a round blob in a blue jumpsuit, the name Carl stitched with white thread on its left front pocket. A lifeless husk.

No, not husk. Body. It’s a body. I’ve committed a murder.

He had a metal brace on one leg. It looked like a War wound; the army prosthetics all had that weird shine to them. She stared at him for a long moment, her lower lip trembling. She wiped at her mouth, a futile movement, as if she could clean herself. Oh, God…

There was no God to hear. There never was. Nikolai had Turned her after all. Made her a Nichtvren.

I just killed a man. She looked down at her fingers, stained with a few drops of crimson. The urge to lick them clean rose up inside her, and she had her finger halfway to her mouth before she realized what she was doing.

She let out another strangled little cry and wiped her hand on her sweater under her coat, uselessly. Her fingers tingled. When she lifted them again, they were white and smooth, her nails looking like a human’s. Camouflage. The blood had vanished, drawn into the surface of her skin.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The body on the floor didn’t reply.

***

Cassidy’s was open late, and Selene got a back booth.

The restaurant was on Klondel and Eighth, in a part of town the university students frequented since it was close to the U District and had cheap beer. She ran the risk of being recognized, but the warmth of a cup of coffee and some good dim lighting, not to mention some humans—

Prey.

—humans drew her. It seemed like a safe enough place to sit and collect herself.

Where else does a murderer go after her crime, anyway? To the nearest café, where she coldly orders a cuppa joe. Good thing we’re not still on ration cards. I wonder if they’d have one for blood banks?

The hostess showed her to a red-vinyl booth and gave her a glass of water Selene suspected she’d be unable to drink. Selene ordered coffee and, as soon as she’d gotten rid of the waitress, dug in the bag she’d been hauling around and pulled out the battered manila folder.

I killed a man. I’m a murderer now. Takes one to catch one, maybe? You think?

There weren’t many students in here on a weeknight, especially this early. The lighting was low, but still glaringly harsh to Selene’s new senses. It even hurt her skin. No wonder Nichtvren preferred silk, dim light and rich colors. Their vision was so acute it was painful for them to sit under fluorescent lighting or look at bright color.

Pictures of old silent-screen stars on the walls stared down at a few scattered customers. Red vinyl booths and glass-topped tables reflected the light bulbs. The entire front of the restaurant was glass windows, looking out on the top of Klondel Avenue—the nice part of the Avenue, the part where you wouldn’t get mugged or raped past dark. South of Twentieth Street, the Ave became a cesspool, choked with poverty and cheap liquor. Not to mention other, darker things.

She opened the folder. The rasp of paper against her newly-sensitive fingertips was like sandpaper.

I killed a man, and I’m sitting here like it doesn’t matter. My God.

Responding officer’s report, a copy of the report Jack had typed up from her, a transcript of the emergency-dispatch call she’d made. . .autopsy report.

Well, there wasn’t that much left to autopsy. Selene flipped the report over with one convulsive movement. Her eyes prickled, but she set her jaw. Don’t do it, Selene. Don’t dissolve now.

I won’t even get to go to a memorial service, they hold them during the day, don’t they? And I’m a fugitive. A criminal, even though nobody knows it yet.

She glanced over the rest of file, her skin going cold in instinctive reaction.

Demoskenos Kirai Nikolai, Turned by Kelaios Grigorivitch Grigori. A picture of Nikolai exiting a limo, his collar up against wind. A few paragraphs, detailing everything Jack had been able to dig up.

No wonder he couldn’t tell her. Nikolai had been Turned by this mysterious Grigori. A little bit about Nikolai’s financial holdings, and the extent of his territory. He wasn’t as powerful as she thought. No, he was far more than he let on.

Selene shivered, glancing through the information. She’d been lucky to escape him. He was a very busy boy, and a very rich one.

Selene turned the page.

Nikolai had killed him. Killed his maker. As far as Selene understood, that was a mortal sin among Nichtvren. Patricide among immortals, she thought, black humor bubbling up in her throat.

Except for one little thing. Grigori didn’t appear to be dead.

Selene flipped another page. This was a photograph, poorly done in black and white, pixilated as if an old-fashioned printer had run it off. Underneath it were a few more lines—the date taken, a month ago. The location, down on the docks on the west side of town, a tanker from the Venezuela Republic, docked at the same time. The name?

Grigori Kelayos.

They’re not very creative, are they. Next was the memo from the top, detailing that the Thompson case had to be lost. The sister might be a problem, she read, her skin roughening into large goosebumps. She will be dealt with by the Prime Power. She is to be left strictly alone.

Well, wasn’t that nice of them. Would they leave her alone now that she was a sucktooth, and a murderer to boot?

“Anything you need?” the waitress said. She had high cheekbones and a straight fall of crow’s-wing hair that brushed her back. Like Nikolai’s hair, with a blue sheen to it.

And her pulse echoed in Selene’s head, a lighter flutter than the janitor’s heavy drumbeat. ka-THUD. ka-THUD. ka-THUD.

“No, thank you,” Selene said, politely enough, and tried to smile. But her fangs were aching to slip out, and she didn’t know how to stop them. She settled for a sort of smiling grimace.

The waitress stared at her for a long moment, as if wanting to say something, but shrugged instead. “OK. I’ll be back with more coffee in a minute.”

“Thanks.” Selene’s eyes dropped to the file again. The waitress, mercifully, went away.

She flipped back to the picture.

Grigori had a nice face, at least. Broad cheekbones, strong chin, straight eyebrows. He looked vaguely Asian, his eyes slightly elongated. Beardless, his hair braided into long strings. Braided or beaded, she couldn’t tell, the picture quality was poor.

The face seemed familiar. Her skin roughened, instinctive reaction, and she flattened her palm over the picture. Intuition ran a river of ice cubes right under her new, pale, perfect skin.

Give my regards to Nikolai.

Selene shuddered. Was this her brother’s killer? He looked familiar. Had she seen him before? But that was ridiculous. Or was it? She knew better than to discount her instincts, but they had to be severely fucked-up by shock now.

No wonder Jack didn’t want this getting out. She picked up her cooling coffee cup, raising it to her lips as if she was taking a sip. Sensitive information on the Prime of Saint City, it’s pure blackmail material in the right hands. Her back crawled with shivering gooseflesh. “Grigori,” she whispered into the cup.

He’s probably got a huge grudge against Nikolai. So do I, come to think of it.

That still didn’t solve the question of who killed Danny, though. Unless this Grigori did it, because Danny was working for Nikolai and popped above the radar.

It was the only possible explanation. Which meant she had a picture of her brother’s killer, even if he hadn’t personally ripped Danny’s body to shreds.

The other Nichtvren—Sevigny—had said something about Grigori. Just before all hell had broken loose at the House of Pain. And then all the werecain had turned on the Nichtvren. And the dead werecain in her bedroom. . .

I’m woefully behind on my werecain research. Not to mention a few little things about Nichtvren I wish I’d known before now. Nothing like field experience to make a good teacher into a great one.

Yeah. Good luck getting hired now.

She glanced out over the restaurant. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, she was uneasy, the back of her neck prickling. That always meant bad news.

Selene dug in her wallet, pulled out a fiver credit to pay for the coffee, and swept the file together, jamming it back into her bag. What was it about werecain and Nichtvren? They weren’t quite enemies, and some Nichtvren controlled werecain, couldn’t they? Or so it seemed. None of Nikolai’s thralls were werecain—not that she’d seen, anyway. But there was something else, too, something she was forgetting.

She couldn’t remember. Her memory wasn’t what it used to be, what with all the murder and screaming and changing into the walking dead. No, not dead. Undead. And bloodsucking.

I’m really dealing with this quite well, she thought, and laid five carefully on the table. Her wrists ached savagely—the spurs and bone formations that were the last thing to Turn and solidify on a Nichtvren. The fine mechanisms of the claws were there, and nobody knew why they were the last thing to finish changing.

Can the lecture, sister, and get the hell out of here. Danny’s voice, urgently whispering in the center of her head. The medallion warmed against her chest. Something’s wrong. Something’s tracking you.

She eased out of the booth, sliding the strap of the bag over her head. Her nostrils flared. It was only a breath of scent, but she recognized it instantly, and the recognition froze her in place for a few precious seconds. Her pupils shrank, and the entire restaurant seemed to darken, a cloud passing over the booths and the few customers, who continued on with their meals, oblivious. One of them—a man in the window, his dark brown hair sleek as a seal’s head—lifted a cigarette to his lips. The smell of the cigarette mixed with that other reek, the one Selene recognized.

Death and pain and blood, something male, ancient—and hungry.

Danny’s killer. Whatever it was.

Selene straightened. She stuffed her hand in her pocket and closed her fingers around cold metal. The gun. Is it out on the street? And why is it tracking me?

Another realization hit her at the same moment.

The curse. She hadn’t felt the swimming weakness or the slow burning of her curse since she’d murdered that poor man at the bus station.

Am I not a tantraiiken anymore?

She was still standing there, her fingers around the butt of the gun, looking down at the fiver on the table and the full cup of cold coffee, when every window along the front of the restaurant crashed inward on a shockwave that threw Selene back against the wall.

***

Her body moved on instinct, the fierce joy of action slamming into her stomach. If she’d been human the thing would have killed her.

Well, it still might, Danny’s voice said peevishly in her head.

Her fingers dug into the plastered ceiling. She hung on the ceiling like one of those cartoon images of cats. If I had a tail it would be puffed up by now. Her bag hung down, the strap digging into her neck. It was a good thing the ceiling was pre-War plaster rather than shoddy acoustic tile, the tiles would never have held her.

The thing was fluid and low, a shape of hairy darkness. It didn’t smell precisely like a werecain—that other smell, the smell of Danny’s killer, cloaked its furry stench. A hired hand. The helpless urge to giggle almost swallowed her whole. Or hired paw, har de har har.

The ceiling was too high. The werecain thudded back down onto the floor, too heavy to leap straight up at her.

Here I am clinging to the ceiling in a restaurant after I’ve murdered a bus-station janitor, and I don’t even know what this thing wants, except to kill me. Why? What did I do to deserve this?

It leapt again, blindly, claws outstretched, twisting to thud down on the floor once more. The entire building shuddered when it did that. It’s dense, denser than even a Nichtvren. The lunatic desire to laugh rose up again, she shoved it down. This wasn’t funny, but her brain just wouldn’t quit. Get it, denser than a Nichtvren? And boy golly, they’re pretty dense.

She didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do now. Her feet hung down, she could fold in half and get them up out of the way—but how long could she hang by just her fingers? The medallion burned against her chest, growing steadily hotter and hotter.

The werecain leapt again and she flinched. The bag swung, and the creature’s claws whooshed through empty air, a low deadly sound.

Is it after my bag? It doesn’t like my accessories? If it eats my feet can I grow them back?

Her fingers slipped and the werecain growled. The sound made the tables rattle. Selene dimly heard screaming. Of course, some of the waitstaff would be left alive. Had it killed the customers? She craned her neck to look, could see nothing but shattered glass and tables, smashed wooden chairs. God, what am I going to do? There’s no way I can fight that thing, and sooner or later—

The little bell over the door jingled. Selene twisted, trying to look. Couldn’t, she had to twist her legs up out of the way as the werecain leapt again and thudded back into the floor. Another wounded howl. Her fingers slipped again, and she jackknifed, trying to get her legs up around a light fixture—something, anything.

Her fingers slipped free of the ceiling. White dust pattered down. She twisted in midair. If I land on top of that thing I’m as good as dead.

She hit the ground, her feet thudding into a litter of broken glass and a tide of spilled coffee. It was amazing, her body moving without thought to let her land lightly as a cat. The black-furred werecain-thing scrabbled, doubling on itself. Claws and teeth, and a stink of something both physical and magickal.

Realization struck her. It’s being used. That’s why it doesn’t smell like a regular—

“Move!” He slammed into her from the side, knocking her down, the breath leaving her in a whoof! that would have been funny if she hadn’t been flying through the air and skidding across a glass-topped table to hit the wall.

The beast snarled and leapt at her, but Nikolai moved first, something blurring silver in his hands. There was a solid meaty sound, and the werecain thudded to the floor, this time limply. It made a horrible little mewling sound and Selene gasped, sliding off the table, scrambling to her feet. Nikolai knelt in a swordsman’s crouch, the bright length of metal making a humming sound. Then he rose like a dark wave.

Nikolai grabbed her arm with his left hand. In his other hand he had. . .well, why should that surprise me? A sword. She wasn’t up on her metals, but it looked slightly curved, a slashing blade far too large for a human. A type of longsword, maybe. His eyes burned black and her knees went weak.

He held her by one arm, his hand clamped painfully around her bicep, and examined her from head to foot, his eyes flaring with deadly catshine. Then he nodded, shortly, and turned on his heel. Selene caught her breath again. The human habit of breathing, she thought, and tried to pull her arm out of his grasp. Even her newfound strength couldn’t help her. He simply shook her as if she was a kitten in a mama cat’s mouth, her teeth clicking together painfully, and dragged her away from the creature. A spreading pool of black tarry stuff was sliding out from the furred hulk. The smell was awesome, biblical, a roiling stench that would have made Selene gag and puke if she’d still been capable of it. Power boiled in the air.

Nikolai’s hand around her arm sent a prickling wave of heat through her. The medallion was burning, white-hot, the mark on her throat suddenly flaring to life. I thought this was over with. The familiar weakness spilled through her. Nikolai’s face was set and white, his eyes an incandescent black, if such a thing were possible. He carried the sword as if it was natural and normal to walk around dragging a woman with one hand and carrying a bright unsheathed blade with the other.

Nikolai kicked the restaurant’s door open and dragged her out into the street. Sirens whooped in the distance. He smelled like gunpowder and musk, the scent hitting the back of her throat like strong liquor. The familiar dampness between her legs began to throb.

He chose right, south on Klondel, and set off down the sidewalk. Selene pulled fruitlessly against his grasp. He barely even slowed down, even when she tried to go limp and resist him that way. Though when she did that, he did put the sword away, and stopped for long enough to shake her again, her head wobbling back and forth, and he slapped her, once, a light sting across her face.

He could have broken my neck. Another wave of terror-soaked desire washed over her. “What are you going to do?” she gasped.

He said nothing, but showed his teeth, fangs sliding out from behind his upper lip, his aquiline nose wrinkled. It was a silent snarl. The medallion was still white-hot. She was afraid it would start to cook her skin soon.

“Nikolai?” It was her pleading voice, the one that she only seemed to have for him, the breathless begging. What if I’m still a tantraiiken? Oh God, Nichtvren live forever and if I have to do this forever I’ll. . .I’ll. . .He killed it. Did he kill it? “Did you kill it?”

Nikolai shrugged, dragging her along. “It was werecain once,” he said, shortly, and his steps quickened. “I don’t know if it’s dead.”

“What the hell—it was controlled! By whoever killed Danny!” She sounded shrill and terrified even to herself.

“It appears so.” His jaw set. He didn’t even break stride. He had Selene’s right arm, so she couldn’t dig in her pocket for the gun without him noticing. “I doubt that even cursed steel can kill it completely, but the Power I used perhaps worked. Come along, Selene.” He jerked on her arm, hurrying her down the street. People stared, but the sirens behind them seemed to fade. O maybe she just couldn’t hear them through the rushing in her ears.

“You Turned me!” Still trying to twist her arm free from his iron grip, and still accomplishing nothing. “You bastard, you Turned me!”

“I did.” He stopped and pivoted. “I should have done so long ago.” He dragged her into a convenient alley, stepping over piles of refuse and puddles of oily liquid. The smell rose around Selene and she choked, but the medallion cooled against her skin and the stench became more bearable. “You were shot twice in the back, Selene. You would have died had I not shared my blood with you.”

“I suppose it never occurred to you to let me die rather than Turning me into a sucktooth,” she blurted, horrified at herself but unable to stop. You made me into a murderer, I killed that man, my God, you made me do it!

But she could have stayed out in the sun, couldn’t she. Her own weakness disgusted her. Again. She wanted to survive—was that so bad?

He took her shoulders, his fingers biting into her coat, and shoved her against the wall. “No. It never occurred to me to let you die, Selene. You should thank your gods it didn’t.”

“Fuck you,” she spat at him. “I hate you!”

“Master.” He shook her, lightly. Her head bounced off the brick behind her, a brief flare of pain. “That’s the proper way to address your Maker. I hate you, Master. Say it.” His face, lit with the same light that blurred over everything now that Selene’s eyes were a night-hunter’s eyes, was drawn tight, his eyes burning holes, his fangs extended and pressing into his bottom lip. It should have looked ridiculous, corny—the image seen through the lens of every bad B-movie and pulp paperback cover that had survived the fire of Gilead and the greater fire of the War.

Instead, she slumped against the brick, her fingers plucking at the pockets of her coat. She shook, great trembling waves of shudders passing through her from head to foot, her entire body becoming liquid again. I thought I was done with this. “Go fuck yourself,” she whispered, and closed her eyes. Maybe if she shut out his face she could stop shaking like a windblown leaf.

The sirens whooped closer.

The blow came out of nowhere, not a light slap this time but a hard smack against her cheek, it rocked her head back, bouncing off the brick, and she literally saw stars, bright little silvery points of light. “That was a warning,” Nikolai said quietly, propping her up against the wall again. She’d almost toppled over. Her breathing came in short little gasps. Heat pooled in her belly, raced through her veins. “You can take much more damage now, Selene. Do not force me to prove it to you. I have Turned you, you are angry. Very well. Better you survive to hate me than I mourn your passing. Why do you not understand this?” He sounded fractionally calmer. At least he didn’t hit her again. “You are not tantraiiken anymore.” His right hand left her shoulder, brushed back straggling strands of her blonde hair. His fingertips felt good, cool against feverish skin.

“I still. . .” She trailed off, licked her lips.

“Yes. But only for me now, since I Turned you. My blood in your veins, your curse in mine.” He stroked her cheek, touched her lips. “That is what happens when a Nichtvren Turns a tantraiiken. That is why you are such valuable pets, when you’re human. A bargaining chip, a counter, or a companion to while away eternity with.” His fingertip traced the sensitive outline of her lower lip.

Selene’s breath jagged in, out. I don’t have to breathe. Her right hand fumbled for her pocket. So why do I feel breathless?

Nikolai paused, retraced the line of her lip. “I am lonely, Selene, and I recognize much of myself in you.”

Familiar heat flooded her. He was fucking with her head, again. She would be free of the curse if it wasn’t for him—and after so little time without the need pulsing in her body she couldn’t stand the thought of going back to it.

You bastard. Selene’s hand found the cold weight of the gun. She slid it out of her pocket, moaning a little, her head tipping back. Nikolai’s touch almost drove all rational considerations out of her head.

She pressed the barrel to his chest and pulled the trigger in one motion. There was a coughing roar, and Nikolai stumbled back.

How many shots do I have left? Enough to kill him? Probably not. She squeezed the trigger again, and again. How many were in the clip Rigel had left her? How many could she afford to spend on Nikolai? And the werecain, was it even now hauling itself up off the floor of the restaurant and sniffing for her?

Blood. She smelled it, the paranormal tang to it, and it smelled like food, as familiar as her own smell. Nikolai’s blood.

You made me a murderer and got my brother killed, you wouldn’t leave me alone, you USED me! Why were tears standing out in her eyes, and why was she making the hurt little sound as if she’d been shot?

Selene fired twice more. He staggered back, dropped to his knees, his arms spread. His head flung back, she saw the line of his chin and a flash of pale throat. His body jerked as she squeezed the trigger one more time.

You bastard. Now I’m free—if I killed you. I hope I did.

She bolted, scrambling for the end of the alley, her boots slipping in crud and muck but her new body leaping and running with preternatural grace and speed. The curse pounded in her belly, every nerve in her body screamed that she go back to Nikolai, let him do what he wanted, stand still while he caressed her, slid his fingers under her shirt and. . .

Selene burst out of the alley and fled south, leaping along Klondel Avenue with all the speed she could possibly force out of her new body. Wind sang in her ears, and a crazy exhilaration burst inside her chest. She’d shot him and escaped.

She’d finally escaped him.

She was free. Whatever else happened now, she was free. For the first time in her miserable, awful, poor, hungry, dirt-trodden, whoring life.

Free.

Laughing like a madwoman, her hair streaming behind her, Selene streaked down the street faster than a human could, the sound of pounding feet and screeching laughter making the humans crowded in doorways or strolling on the cracked pavement flinch and scatter.

I’m free at last. The tears spilling down her cheeks didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered. Not now.

Free and sob-laughing, Selene fled into the night.