Blood bounds were a risky affair. Too little blood meant a lack of control, whereas too much enslaved the recipients. Marc was decidedly against the latter, and Evelyn reached the same conclusion herself decades ago.
Being faced by a pale reflection of the self was boring. She loved to woo her prey, to make them yearn for her affections, and only then would she indulge in their blood.
“I wonder why she was drugged?” Evelyn said. “Grace never even gave me her name.”
If it wasn’t for her muse, Evelyn might have questioned her maid directly. But for the moment it helped her to progress this piece.
“When I need her face, I’ll open the doors,” Evelyn said. “The workers can stare all they want.”
Disclaimer: This novel is an work in progress and readers may encounter grammatical errors and inconsistencies. Please view this a draft and not a published work.
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