Chapter 125

There were ghosts in the old Millennium Mills. Pale, ravaged faces looked out at me from the darkness, their wide eyes like deep wells filled with agony and woe. These ghosts did not reach for me. Instead, they clung to each to each other, huddled in pairs, fingers digging into flesh and not wanting to let go. Many sat alone, staring into space or looking warily about, jumping at every sound as if they expected their worst nightmare to come crashing in. But for these ghosts, their worst nightmare had already happened. Brandon hadn't lied about the Second Cleansing but he had been deluded about how many vampires had been slaughtered. I wasn't the only one left, but those that had survived, barely looked alive at all. They were like ghouls; ghostly revenants damaged irreparably by the Varúlfur's attempt to flush them from their hiding places. This was the day they had feared for most of their lives, the day they had been told about time after time, the day they had hoped would never come