No one would know he was the hero.īut he wasn't, was he? Because it didn't matter how many of them he killed he never got to them soon enough. His hair and face were covered in it, like some Stephen King nightmare.
He'd stripped off his clothes in the stall, the blood-soaked fabric falling with a wet splat, the excess oozing out, creating red-brown puddles that collected around his toes. He stood motionless on the cold, dull white tile, the yellowed and cracked caulk rough beneath his callused feet. Gideon stared down at the shower floor, no energy to turn on the water yet. A justice he'd never been able to give Laura. By taking her life, the vampire had forfeited the right to his own. It didn't matter why the vampire had taken Morena's life she hadn't deserved death. He'd been right to kill Morena's murderer.
It had been a vivid, punch-in-the-gut reminder of what was starting to blur at the edges in his memory, no matter how he fought against it. Not the same color eyes or hair, but the gentle expression, the sweet, open smile.
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