Blood Sugar
Laz
Hallowell gets both hands on my chest and shoves, and for somebody who looks like he lives on gas station coffee, he’s a lot stronger than he has any right to be.
I stumble backwards, getting my balance back just in time to watch him slam through the fire door. Then an alarm’s going off right over my head, loud enough to make my fangs hurt.
Wonderful. Now I’m standing in a pitch-black hallway with glass all over my suit, next to a screaming door, which doesn’t exactly scream innocence in light of recent events.