Now someone else knew my truth, shared my reality. I was not alone.
Deepon was a bundle of undirected energy. With talk of finding her maker, it found a focus. It gave her a reason to take blood, to gain strength, rather than fighting and resisting the call for it–which was startling with her tenacity, and admirable in itself–because now she had a reason to be sure. It gave her a reason to get out of that ratty gown. It gave her a reason to groom her wild hair, to smile, to be human, to affect charm. It gave her an outlet for her boundless guile.
It gave her a reason to hunt.
It gave her a reason for being.
Under my supervision, she held life and death in her hands. And liked it. As in she took to it more than her new nature would account for; she took to it… quite well. I may have physically held open the door, but she flew through it. And opened it herself again and again, each time she learned, perfected the art of the hunt, the kill. First with me, then more and more on her own.
We all react differently to death. Deepon approached death, or the prospect of it, with derring-do. I, however, didn’t; I approached it with deliberation.