Victor was silent for a moment, contemplating this. Why was murder wrong? A normal person killing another normal person was bad, yes, but a vampire killing a mortal? That was just the food chain. He tried to digest this sentiment but he found the whole idea hard to swallow. What was really nagging him is that his first apparent victim was Belladonna, a girl he barely knew. It should have been Harriet.
Again, he reeled with horror. Where did that thought come from?! But he felt it as a palpable ache in his chest – Harriet was his, not this drunk stranger. His first kill was supposed to be special – not that he had been planning a first kill! – but he felt it should have been a crime of passion of some sort. This felt like an accident, a mistake, and not a very poetic one.
“You should have been on fire – this much healthy tissue means you were healing as fast as the skin was burning, which would have required several pints of blood. More than four. People pass out if they lose more than four pints. They can even go into hepatic shock and die, which means this,” she tapped his forearm with a finger, “this is the skin of a killer.”
He stopped trying to pull away and just stared at her.
“Um. You’ve been through a lot, maybe now is not the time to talk about this?”
“So are you! Shouldn’t you be grieving?”
She let the silence say how insensitive his question was. She let go of his arm.
The silence continued. Eventually she sighed. “It was bound to happen at some point, you are a monster after all. I just thought in the end it was going to be me. Your first kill, I mean.”
He stared at her, his expression unreadable but somehow bordering on awe.