Take My Hand, Let Me Follow
(c) to Geneon Entertainment
It was not her companion's noises that roused her from her slumber, but the cold. Real clutched the edges of her blanket. Damn cold in the Centzon. Didn't Vincent ever know how to turn up the heat?
She sat up, glaring at the stirring bundle in the bed across from her, whimpering and shuddering and breathing unsteadily. Generally no cause for concern, but. . . why was he doing that? Shouldn't he be asleep?
Feet shuffling along steel-plaqued floor she crossed over to him, blanket around her shoulders, watching him. Sweating. Mumbling. Squirming. She reached a delicate hand out to his naked shoulder.
Suddenly white eyes popped open and venomous vampire teeth flashed and his hand lashed out to grab her wrist, ripping her off her feet and on top of him, but then in a flurry of movement so he was positive and she negative. Her voice and breath catches in her throat when he is upon her.
Was this what they called. . . a dream?
The Proxy grows weary, skin fades to white, toppling over. Snoring peacefully. She waits. Nothing.
She gets up and turns up the heat. She goes back to bed.
She'll ask him about it in the morning.