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Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. She had even tried a needle and a catheter on a victim once, but had found that the process was so frustrating and slow that she barely gained any sustenance and had done the worst thing imaginable: wasted a kill. “My God! Ann Veronica,” he said, struggling to keep his hold upon her; “my God! Tell me—tell me now—tell me you love me!” His expression was as it were rapaciously furtive. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache.
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