The glass shattered under the impact of the heavy rock, and she began to kick at it to break it even more. Once the hole was large enough, Mirend dived through the window. She fell, dropping into a roll and jumping up. The house was dark as she walked through it, keeping her steps so soft that she couldn't hear them over her pounding heart. As she neared the closest door, she pulled a sword out of her coat, and it glinted fiercely in the sliver of moonshine that cut through the dim room.
The door, old and battered, was open slightly. She pushed it inward and braced herself for an attack.
Instead, a sob reached her ears. She ventured forward, holding the sword with both hands. As she stepped farther away from the door, it became clear that she was in a bedroom. A dresser, with two drawers half-open and spewing clothes, stood in the corner. Posters of little-known bands and fantasy movies were covering up most of the torn, flowered wallpaper. A bed, still imprinted with the shape of a body, was nestled against the far wall. The sheets were thrown back hastily. Next to it was an old, full-length mirror with a chip in the top right corner. Her gaze traveled down the mirror, and in the reflection she saw the very sight she had feared.
A limp body was sprawled across the soft blue carpet, which had turned purple under him. His strawberry-blonde hair was matted with fresh, dark crimson blood that still glistened sickeningly.
A pale, slender hand was laid on the dead boy's chest. The hand's owner was crying quietly, though she herself was covered in his blood. An empty syringe lay next to her leg.
Shivering as she cried, the girl looked up at Mirend with her black, soulless eyes. "I'm sorry."
And the boy's own killer put her head down, and her sobs racked the dark night, while the moon watched with cool and calm certainty over the dead body, the vampire, and the rescuer whose rescue came just a little too late.