She then opened Lucy’s meager closet and plucked out a pair of heeled boots usually reserved for weddings and funerals. “Everything will follow,” she said. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. A strong arm pulled her closer, and the lips that mouthed her own in tender touches sent her senses reeling. And with his clenched hand he struck him a violent blow in the face. ‘You usually do,’ he said lightly. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. 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.
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