Luna stood still, a mist of blood droplets on her face, a crazy smile along with it. She could feel the warmth of it. She liked it.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Anton ran to Claire, falling on his knees, cradling her in his arms. His hands pressed against the wound, as if trying to stop the life from leaking out of her, but it was useless.
Blood soaked through her clothes, pooling beneath her. Her face was slack, her lips parted, eyes dull and unfocused.
"Claire." His voice barely came out.
No response.
His hands pressed against the wound, warm blood spilling over his fingers.
"Claire, wake up."
Still nothing.
Then he saw it. He saw her breathe her last. Claire died.
His vision blurred, refusing to believe what his eyes were seeing.
He shook her shoulder, harder this time. "Claire."
His breath came short, chest heaving, and for the first time in years—he didn't know what the fuck to do.
Then, a laugh.
Low, satisfied.
Anton's head snapped up.
Luna.
