An extract from Changeling Blood Wolf

She crawled out of the foggy darkness of oblivion towards the sounds of the medical equipment to which she was hooked via various tubes and sensors. She’d felt groggy and disorientated, and she had slowly opened her eyes to look around for a drink to ease the soreness in her throat. The vampire had been sitting at her bedside, looking back at her with an expressionless face. He had nodded at her and a sad smile had momentarily flashed across his features before disappearing again. Her breath had caught in her throat and she had frozen; unable to do anything but stare at the abomination sitting at her bedside, staring back at her.

That he was a vampire she had no doubt. There were no fangs or talons, and except for the fascinating pools of gold and ochre that were his eyes, there was nothing to distinguish him from any other tall, handsome, middleaged man. But one look had told her everything that she needed to know about his true nature, as if she were still looking at things through eyes that were not her own; through the eyes of the demon that had lived inside her. She frowned at this last thought, pushing away memories that threatened to pile in on her.

‘How are you, Philippa?’ Lucien Charron had asked. The rising terror that had built up inside her exploded into every cell, consuming her completely. A high, keening sound filled the little room, and she realized that it was the sound of her own scream. The panic-stricken noise went on and on, continuing until all the air in her lungs had gone. She sucked in a great shuddering breath, closing her eyes for a fraction of a second, and when she opened them again the vampire was gone.

She’d stared around her in panic, her eyes skittering about the room to see where the creature might be. She shook her head in disbelief, her breath coming in great gasps as her heart hammered in her chest. There was no sign of him; he’d gone. She looked down at the seat and noted that the slight indentation in the vinyl seat cushion was slowly filling out, returning to a state that would suggest nothing had ever sat there; that nothing had ever been in the room with her. She shook her head again and allowed the tears to fall.

She had gone insane. She knew that she was now quite mad. How else could she explain her belief that she had been possessed by a demon, and that the same demon had used her to get to, and murder, her father in front of her very eyes?

Philippa Tipsbury cried great sobs as memories of the demon that had inhabited her body flooded back to her. A nurse appeared at the door. The middle-aged woman hurried to her side and injected a clear liquid into a tube hanging out of Philippa’s arm. She cooed at the young girl in the bed as she administered the drug, and when she was finished she gently ran her hand across the girl’s forehead, hushing her and waiting for the drug to take effect.

Philippa felt the coldness creep into her again, and she welcomed the calm that it brought with it. She tried to speak, but the drug was taking effect so quickly that nothing came out but an indistinct mumble before the darkness crowded in again at the edges of her vision and then consumed her completely.

That was two days ago.

And now they were back.