The Butcher's Bride
He clutched his face, blood welling up between his fingers, staining his pristine white tuxedo red.
I scrambled off the table, backing into the corner, holding the bloody razor out.
"I told you," I panted. "I learned to bite."
Magnus lowered his hand. He looked at the blood on his palm. He tasted it.
Then, he started to laugh.
It wasn't a sane laugh. It was a low, bubbling chuckle that made my skin crawl.
"Feisty," he murmured, licking the blood from his lips. His eyes were shining with a twisted, dark delight. "I like it."