He jerked again at the sound of the voice, gaze flying to the speaker. The same kid - not kid, vampire - from the woods. Clay reflexively moved back, not that there was anywhere to go from where he was. A thousand thoughts whirled through his mind but even if he could have seized on one of them to speak his tongue, mouth and throat had suddenly gone dry.
All he could do was listen. Listen and watch as a younger woman emerged into the room
"You're sick," he finally managed to pant - a little irony from a man that made most of his living pitting werewolves in death matches, "no. I don't - I can't...." Sirius Wolfram