“Want to see my fangs?” She asked. To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Diane seemed more interested in the prestige of her violin skills than in the more sordid subject of her vampirism. In fact, Kimble was drowsily awake when she entered the little bedchamber, the state of which left a good deal to be desired, even without the added debris arising from tending a wounded man.
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