Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. We were properly married, and the certificate is at my lawyer’s. The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable. She felt her canines growing. Heedless, however, of the consequences, he pursued his task. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. They shouted to her from the wings to come off. My concept of the reluctant vampire sprung from a rabid obsession with medieval history, especially the pre-Renaissance era of the Black Plague.
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