Thursday, April 10, 2008
The vampire’s eyes flickered from red to black, a trick she’s seen in films that had taken her almost a week of practice to master. Harold stepped back, recognizing it as a sign she was craving to feed and not wishing to be dinner.
“Help me, Harold,” she said, “I have a craving… an unhealthy craving…”
“Oh dogs,” he said. “Not Mexican again? We had to go all the way to Basingstoke to find you a Mexican immigrant last time.”
“Nothing like that.” Gillian clutched the dining chair for support, her fingers leaving indentations in the pine. “Worse… I want… drive-through burgers and street corner hot dogs.”