It wasn't his rage. The sense of aching loss that seemed to fill him, like some bitter medicine. We need these nice citizen vamps to talk to us. His arms were traced with bites and scratches, so it looked like he was wearing red gloves all the way up to his shoulders.
We don't need candles. But I wasn't sure what was funny, and I didn't have the courage to ask. He didn't look at me while he did it, but he knew I was watching. I don't need it.
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