There had been pain, the sharp sting of Louis's fangs, and then a peaceful fading out, as her life had ebbed away. Then the liquid, dark and rich on her tongue. And now ... and now ...

Eliza screamed, back arching as she writhed. Every inch of her skin was set aflame. Every nerve twisted itself and burned out. She sobbed. She pleaded. She burned.

After a thousand years, or perhaps a few long, terrible minutes, she was quiet, as her heart beat to a stop. Her hair had nearly pulled itself from her proper pinnings, during her death struggle; now it flowed around her in thick, dark curls. Her teeth sharpened themselves into fangs.

Her eyes seemed to work; Eliza sat up, carefully, entranced by the sights before her.

"What is the meaning of this?" she asked calmly, glancing at each of them in turn.