He ran a finger along the vampire's cheek. It attacked him with such fierceness that it hurt; and it went through him like wind-driven rain, as if he had no substance left at all, only the loneliness and the thirst. Their voices drifted through an open vent. Charlotte drew back the curtain—the velvet prickling her fingers— and looked out of the window.
No specific memories, only an untroubled consciousness of self. He did not reply, only sat down in the chair beside her with a wry twist to his lips. One moment he was standing as still as marble, the next the policeman was in his grasp—yet Charlotte had not see him move. But it was all for your sake, Karl.
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