I pulled Naomi up the steps and she came willingly, her bell chiming with each stair, her hand warm and trembling in mine. Not from fear. From the same thing that had turned her panties dark while she watched Belle lose the ability to form sentences.
Belle lay sprawled across the porch boards with milk pooling in the hollow of her collarbone, breathing like she'd just finished a marathon. She lifted one hand and waved it loosely in our direction.
"Don't mind me. I'll just be here. Dying. On wood."
I pulled Naomi past Belle and through the red front door of the farmhouse. The interior matched the exterior's charm: a single large room with whitewashed walls, exposed beams, and a bed roughly the size of a small country positioned beneath a window that framed the impossible sunset. Clean white sheets. Pillows stacked high. A nightstand holding four empty essence bottles that I'd placed during the Sanctum's design phase because I am nothing if not a forward-thinking pervert.
