To Molly, the staircase was a blur of sensations: the deep reds and gold of the carpets and Victorian-era wallpaper meshed together like the indistinct colors of an Impressionist painting; the aromas of dark, old wood and floral bouquets set upon antique tables filled her head; the sound of air rushing past her was like that of a tornado, and her heart beat pounded like a thousand drums.
Her mind racing, she managed to focus on the facts. She was out of weapons, out of ideas, and nearly out of hope. If Molly could only get Lazarus to stop for a few seconds, she might be able to think of something, anything. She needed a way to destroy him.
“You know, I’d rather be dead than go anywhere with you.”
She blurted it out impulsively, but the words brought Lazarus to a screeching halt. He stood like a statue on a landing near the top floor of the house. At first, he didn’t let go of her, nor did he say anything, he simply stared straight ahead.
His face became ashen and his shoulders sagged as he let go of Molly, then gently pushed her away. He realized now that his dream of a family was over, at least a family with Molly.
“I have no desire to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I have an enormous amount of respect for you. You’re not like other people nowadays, soft and weak. You were obviously born of a warrior class. In a different time, you would have been Joan of Arc.”
His jaw was slack and his eyes were half closed as he looked at her with sadness. Then, with no warning, a metamorphoses. His face tightened, his eyes became wide and red, the pupils nothing more than black pinpoints. He opened his mouth ever so slightly to reveal razor sharp fangs.
“I had such high hopes for you, Molly, for us,” he said, “but if you’d rather be dead...”
Her mind racing, she managed to focus on the facts. She was out of weapons, out of ideas, and nearly out of hope. If Molly could only get Lazarus to stop for a few seconds, she might be able to think of something, anything. She needed a way to destroy him.
“You know, I’d rather be dead than go anywhere with you.”
She blurted it out impulsively, but the words brought Lazarus to a screeching halt. He stood like a statue on a landing near the top floor of the house. At first, he didn’t let go of her, nor did he say anything, he simply stared straight ahead.
His face became ashen and his shoulders sagged as he let go of Molly, then gently pushed her away. He realized now that his dream of a family was over, at least a family with Molly.
“I have no desire to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I have an enormous amount of respect for you. You’re not like other people nowadays, soft and weak. You were obviously born of a warrior class. In a different time, you would have been Joan of Arc.”
His jaw was slack and his eyes were half closed as he looked at her with sadness. Then, with no warning, a metamorphoses. His face tightened, his eyes became wide and red, the pupils nothing more than black pinpoints. He opened his mouth ever so slightly to reveal razor sharp fangs.
“I had such high hopes for you, Molly, for us,” he said, “but if you’d rather be dead...”
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