Even his intention is instinctual; bred, not born. Or born here, if you count it that way (as he does.) Born in blood. But she's right; there's something wrong, and he doubts, shadow fingers flickering uncertainly over her throat, tracing about to find a pulse.

As tempting as she is, she shouldn't be here; here is not where this sort of thing happens. He doesn't let go so much as he dissolves, and when the shadow parts the blood is gone, leaving her in the white-walled room.

A little boy is sitting at the table, using crayons to draw overlapping red and blue trees.