Innocently intended though the question was, Serghei found it infuriating beyond endurance, and had no difficulty in identifying its source: the fair lady was trying, not very successfully, to pursue Mr. Rakovic, who was backing up the street and taking shots out of the car window, causing her to lose a lot of time in ducking and diving. That only left the creature in the wheelchair, and Serghei was not given to discrimination (except insofar as he despised her entire hell-spawned species). He turned his gun upon her and advanced to point-blank range.

Hey, Mister Bond, came a decidedly unfriendly voice, close at hand. He swiveled in its direction, revolver and all, and found himself looking into the shop door, the grim face of a young female store clerk, and the business end of a canister of pepper spray. The following seconds were sheer chaos: the searing mist hit him full in the eyes, in his shock and pain he reflexively fired a shot (and never saw its target, though he did hear a brief scream), and he suddenly felt himself being knocked to the pavement by a tremendous force, while infantile yet aggressive thoughts flooded his consciousness:

Not hurt nice lady! Hate you! Hurt you too! Whereupon the pain in his eyes was overshadowed by far more acute pain in his neck, but this was short-lived¦ as was he.

Hearing the shot behind her, and having no luck in catching up with the saloon and its trigger-happy driver, the fair lady turned back. Outside the shop, the first attacker was sprawled on his back, motionless, with Michal on top of him, her teeth fixed in his neck and her hands (needlessly) pinning him down. Whilst the lady certainly felt no regret for the assassin’s demise, this was a sight to concern her: Michal was, as far as she knew, the first of her kind “ an immortal created from the milk, rather than the blood of her mother “ and the only nourishment she had received since her rebirth was more of that same milk. What effect blood might have¦ and then her fears were confirmed, as Michals’s body was racked with spasms, she pulled away from her victim, and began regurgitating copious quantities of his blood into the gutter. The fair lady held her tenderly until the retching had subsided, then helped her back into the wheelchair, sad-faced but seemingly not the much worse for wear.

Miki¦ does not feel so good. I’m not surprised. Silly girl, replied the lady, affectionately. Blood isn’t for you, darling. That’s for big girls. Why did you want it, anyway?

Nice lady in the shop try help Miki. Man hurt her. Hate him, hate him¦ The fair lady followed her daughter’s gaze into the entrance of the shop, where Elisabeta lay, her eyes glazed and staring; a bloody, nine-millimeter hole bored into her forehead. Shedding a quiet stream of red-tinged tears, the lady approached her, and sensed the unmistakable vibrations of life still persisting in her injured body. Daring to hope, she laid her hand upon Elisabetas skull¦ but sensed almost nothing. Barely enough subconscious brain activity to keep her heart beating. No thoughts, no dreams, no memories. A soul imprisoned in a brain that was now little better than a clockwork motor, incapable of sentience.

And this was to be her reward for possibly having saved Michals’s life? Not if I can help it. The lady bit her wrist and let the blood trickle into Elisabetas mouth, and her tears became tears of joy to perceive the gradual reddening of her eyes, and the lengthening of her canine teeth¦ but still no evidence of mental recovery. Well, we must hope for the best.