Zerbrowski was beside me, his gun out, but not pointed at anyone, sort of ceilingward. He held it out toward me. I tasted blood and assumed he'd nicked me with his fangs. Fine, I'll leave you out of it.
His face was very solemn, though there was something in his eyes, some flicker, that I didn't trust. Now, you, just tell me what you need to tell me. It had to be seventy outside. I was talking to Marianne for months before I realized what it was.
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