He leaned closer. "Don't go out into the sunlight ever again, or you will burn. When you get hungry, remember you can only feed on blood. Do you understand? You must feed on blood."

She could just barely hear him over the roar growing in her ears.

Then the world went black.

"Rose! Oh, my God, Rose." A pause followed. "Quentin! I don't think she's breathing."

Slitting her eyes, Rose realized that Miriam Boyd was kneeling beside her, sobbing. People were moving about inside the house.

Old Quentin was inspecting her throat, his wrinkled face gone pale with shock. Seamus' dead body still lay on the floor beside her.

"She's alive," someone said.

"We heard Seamus yelling," Quentin said. "Who did this?"

"Edward Claymore," Rose whispered. She felt no regret at exposing him for a killer. She felt no sorrow for Seamus. She felt nothing.

Well-meaning friends put her to bed. They took Seamus' body to prepare him for burial, and she let them. Then she surprised everyone by asking them all to leave.

"No, Rose. Your throat looks bad, and you need someone here," Miriam said.

"Please. Everyone go."

Reluctantly, perhaps thinking she needed to mourn alone, her neighbors left.

She got out of bed and went downstairs. Many years ago, her grandfather had placed iron brackets on each side of the door and created a heavy wooden bar. But no one in her family had ever needed to use it. She lifted the bar and used it to block the door.

"Are you here?" she asked.

"I am here."

She turned around to see Seamus standing behind her, dressed exactly as he'd been when he came home, except that his sheath was empty and she could see right through him.

He stared at her as if she were a stranger. "How can you be alive?"

"I do not think I am."

A week passed, and she did not leave the house nor unbar the door.

Several neighbors came to knock, but she would not let anyone in. She called through the door to Quentin that she wished to be left alone. She did not attend Seamus' funeral. She knew what they were all thinking, that the death of her last kin had broken her mind, left her mad.

Perhaps they were right.

She and Seamus were trapped inside. She slept all day and woke only at night. The magnitude and sorrow of what had happened slowly hit Seamus in a series of stages. At first, he seemed lost in denial. On the third night he asked her.

"How did Claymore come into the house, Rose? Did he just walk through the door and catch you unaware?"

"No," she answered flatly. "I let him in. I wanted him to come in."

He raged at her, blaming her, and she did not rebuke him.

On the fifth day, he stopped raging and asked, "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know."

She grew hungrier each night. Edward's final words constantly echoed in her ears.

Do not go out into the sunlight ever again, or you will burn. When you get hungry, remember you can only feed on blood. Do you understand? You must feed on blood.

Most country people loved to whisper tales of ghosts, fairies, changelings, vampires, and even of spirits who drained the living. Rose had never taken much interest in such legends, but now wished she had.

Her own lack of emotion was wrong, and she knew it.

But her body no longer functioned as a proper living thing. She did not eat nor drink nor require the privy. Her mouth produced no salvia. Her heart did not beat.

Yet she hungered.

On the eighth night, she slipped out of the house and went to the stable. At present, Seamus had no colts in the stalls, but Rose had forgotten to feed her pony. She found hay and a fresh bucket of water on the floor of his stall. Someone had been caring for him. Probably Quentin. She harnessed her pony and climbed into her cart.

"Where are you going?" Seamus asked, materializing in the doorway.

"I must go out. I will come back."

"Where?" he demanded.

She was starving, growing weak and desperate. "Move or I will drive the cart through you."

His eyes widened at both her words and tone, and he vanished.

She could not care for his feelings, not just now.

Looking back later, she truly did not even know what she was doing, or how she had the sense to leave Loam Village and drive a good distance away. But for the first time in her life, she felt uncomfortable, almost frightened by the broad night sky, and she longed for the enclosed safety of the house. She felt much too… exposed out here.

In spite of this newfound fear, she intended to go all the way up to Eagan Village, about two hours east, but then she saw movement on the road up ahead, and she came upon a young man standing on the ground, examining his horse's hoof.

Again, without knowing why, she felt a need to gain his absolute confidence, and she pulled up her pony and asked, "Do you need help?"

He stiffened and then straightened, turning his head to see her. His face was awed, just as the villagers in the pub had looked while listening to Edward.

"My horse picked up a stone," the young man said. "He's limping."

Rose climbed down from the cart, watching the man. She could almost see him glowing with warmth, with life. She could hear his heart beating. She could see the pulse in his throat.

"My brother is a horse trainer. Let me see," she said, letting her voice soothe him, assure him that she would know what to do.

Without hesitation, he knelt down and picked up the horse's hoof. Rose looked at the embedded stone. "He'd best not walk or he'll go lame," she said. "Tie him up and come with me. We'll bring the blacksmith from my village to pull the stone."

He did not even ask her about her village or how far it might be. He seemed lost in the wisdom of her words as he tied up his horse. His heartbeat grew louder, and she was fighting herself not to lunge at him. A creek gurgled beyond the trees to the left of the road.

"My pony is thirsty," she said. "Come and help me water him first."

The young man asked no questions and helped her lead the harnessed pony to the creek. Rose crouched down, and the man crouched beside her. She reached out to touch his face as she had touched Edward's… and he let her.

The next action felt natural, and without conscious thought, she pushed him back against the grassy bank and drove her teeth into his throat-as Edward had done to her.

He bucked once in shock, but she held him down, draining and drinking.

Blood and warmth and life flowed into her mouth, down her throat, filling her with strength. She saw images in her mind, sheep and dogs and green fields and a girl named Missy. She drank and drank until she could take no more.

Then she sat up.

The hunger was gone, but suddenly so was the hollow emptiness. Looking down, she felt shame and regret. She touched her own throat. The wound was entirely healed.

"What are you?" Seamus asked from behind her. "What have you become?"

Even transparent, his face was a mask of horror. She could not blame him.

But she didn't answer. Instead, she looked down at the young man on the grass. His heart was no longer beating. She dragged him a few paces to the creek and dropped his body into the current.

"We are cursed, Rose," Seamus said quietly.

"Yes," she agreed. "I think we are."

A year and a half slipped by.

Rose had recovered from the death of her father and then the deaths of Gregor, Briana, and Kenna, but she would never recover from the actions of Edward Claymore.

She and Seamus hid in the house by day and through most of the nights. They were both dead and yet tied to this world. Some things did improve. After a time, Seamus came to understand her need to feed in order to survive, and as he loved her-and she was his only companion-he focused his blame and judgment upon Edward, not upon her.