"What?"
"Oh, not insane vampires, not all of them, but just as dangerous sometimes. To themselves, if not . . ." Thorn's voice trailed off.
Joe stared into the pale face, and could see torture there.
"As she was," Thorn went on at last, whispering. "For centuries, it would appear. Since the day, perhaps, when she saw me fall to traitors' swords and thought that I was dead. Wandering the earth. Seeking to have a home again, and human contact . . . in, as I say, some kind of halfway state. Able to eat the food of breathing humans, to face the sun without distress, to find a kind of sleep anywhere on earth. But able to find real rest nowhere at all. They are mad, and they are outcasts from both worlds, and I do not know how many of them there are who wander the earth tonight. Too much happens to them in their breathing lives, and madness supervenes. Too much happened to me, but I was—very strong. Yes, very strong."
Impulsively Joe put a hand on the arm of the man, the human being, who rode in the seat beside him.
Thorn looked at him. "It was she, though." He paused. "I am almost sure."
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